


Remember The Time

by orphan_account



Series: From Time to Time [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Kinda, R Plus L Equals J, Smut, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15492240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Daenerys injures herself, only to find that the life she wakes up to is not a life that she knows.  She has lost nearly twelve years of memories and must struggle to find her way back to the truth, to remember the life she's always wanted but cannot recall.  But still, she cannot help but wonder if any of it is even real.Begins around episode 7.03, and honestly we could be going anywhere from that point!





	1. A Stubborn King

**Author's Note:**

> Well, folks, NoOrdinaryLines and I have done it. We have crafted some time travel fluff (or is it?) Oh, there will be smut. And cute kid shit because who doesn't want to see ParentJon and ParentDany and awesome TargKids? Not meant to be taken too seriously, just a fun little romp that we are actually AHEAD of schedule on! That being the case, we will post an update every Monday/Wednesday/Friday until this bad boy is complete.
> 
> Fair warning - Part 1 of 3 stories we are setting in this particular universe, so if there are bits that make you go "Huh?" there's a good chance it'll come up later. Or we're just crazy. We are crazy, just accept that. You knew that when you clicked your way here, so you might as well enjoy the ride!

 

* * *

 

Daenerys was fairly certain that there would be no reasoning with the King in the North.  She had given him permission to mine the dragon glass, agreed to provide men for such an undertaking, and all he had given her in return was a mumbled ‘Thank you’ paired with enormously sad, eager eyes.  And to complicate things further, he’d had to ask whether or not she actually thought he spoke truly about the horrors he spoke of in the North.

She was not sure she believed in these white walkers and armies of the undead, but Tyrion had certainly made a good point:  she needed allies.  And for all his stubbornness, she suspected that he would be willing to fight the Lannister forces, if all her Hand had informed her of proved true. 

One thing she desperately wished she’d been informed of before the man had sailed for Dragonstone was how quietly handsome he was, unassuming at first to be sure, the sort of man who could blend in amongst a crowded hall if he did not wish to be bothered.  There was something to him, though, that made it hard for her to ignore him completely, though what it was she could not exactly say.

She resolved, though, that she would not think on him just now, the afternoon sun beating down upon her as she walked along the rocky shoreline with Missandei, clinging to a semblance of privacy now that she had dismissed even her bloodriders so that they might speak alone.  There was no one she trusted more than the girl beside her, especially amongst those gathered in her ancestral home, and there was something soothing about letting her guard down now that they had no audience.

“What do you think of him?”  Missandei’s voice was deceptively smooth for such a pointed question, and it only took an arch of her friend’s brow for Daenerys to know exactly who she spoke of.

The Queen gave a tilt of her head and narrowed her eyes slightly.  “I don’t.”

She watched as Missandei’s face adopted a look of knowing disbelief.  “You have no opinion on the King in the North?”

Daenerys felt pinned by her friend’s gaze, her desire to mask whatever *tiny* interest she might have in this frustrating man outweighed by her desire to speak honestly.  “I think he is exceedingly stubborn.”  She gave a sniff and looked away, her gaze returning only at the empty silence that fell over the pair, only to find Missandei’s own eyes narrowed.

“That is all?  You have no other thoughts on this potential ally but that he is exceedingly stubborn?”  Her closest friend nudged her with her hip, and she felt an unwanted smile break free as she rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

“I suppose…if viewed under the right circumstances, some might say he is rather comely.”  Daenerys paused, steadfastly ignoring the way Missandei nodded solemnly, the amusement twinkling in her eyes the only clue that she did not fully believe the Queen’s rather bland description.  “He *is* still in open rebellion, so why you would press me on this I truly cannot guess.”

The other woman merely smiled slyly and shrugged, the thick fabric of her overcoat, so like Daenerys’s own, rippling behind her as they reached the end of the shoreline and began to scale the stony outcropping that gave way to a grassy field.  She looked around, unsure that she’d been this far on foot before, having kept to the Keep and the immediate grounds for the bulk of her rather short time on this little island.

“What is that, Your Grace?”  Missandei was pointing to the other end of the field, at something dark and oddly shaped, something that did not seem to belong in such a peaceful place.  Daenerys looked to it and then looked away, gooseflesh rising on her skin as a shiver snaked it’s way down her spine.

But she would not allow such fear to dictate her actions, and so she strode firmly towards the dark mass, thinking it must be some collection of rock and stone, perhaps this obsidian Tyrion had spoken of.  Missandei followed closely, linking her arm through the Queen’s as they approached carefully, and Daenerys realized this was no stone at all.

It was a tree, or what remained of it, the stump charred and cracked as though it had been burned.  Around her the grasses swayed in the breeze, but her eyes remained riveted on this ruined carcass of what must have been a mighty tree once, before it had been reduced to naught but burnt remains and twisted white roots that emerged from the soil around it.

She knelt, mindless to the grass stains she would surely sully her trousers and skirts with, reaching shaking fingers forward to touch one ancient root, her progress halted just before her skin pressed against the strange ashen surface at Missandei’s alarmed voice.

“Your Grace!”  She looked over her shoulder, at her friend’s normally placid expression now tainted with worry.  “Are you sure that is wise?”  Golden eyes looked around, and then Missandei wrapped her arms protectively around herself as if to ward off a chill, despite the warm sun beating down upon them.  “This place feels…strange.”

It did feel off, that was true, but there did not seem to be anything menacing about it.  There was something, however, some ribbon of power that seem to call to her, that urged her to place her hand upon this tree.  It felt curious, if such a thing was possible.  She was not afraid, at least, her interest piqued by the *otherness* that seemed to attract her, and she placed her palm flat against the bark.

Daenerys gasped, her body jolting as suddenly she could not see the charred remains at all, but a tree fully grown, horrifyingly beautiful as it stared upon her with empty wooden eyes, a grotesque mouth twisted in a grimace, and fear quickly overcame her as she pulled back, desperate suddenly to be away from this terrible wonder.  She pressed her eyes tightly shut, her chest heaving with rapids breaths as she felt a warm hand on her arm and the familiar sound of Missandei’s voice.

“Your Grace?  Daenerys?”  Her friend’s voice was frantic, her hand grasping at the Queen’s arm as she pulled her onto her feet, and she fought to calm herself as she opened her eyes, relieved to find nothing before her but the charred remains once more, the haunting image she had seen now gone but remaining in her memory.

“I am fine, my friend.”  She took a steadying breath, smoothing her hands down her skirts as she composed herself, Missandei releasing her but still watching her closely as she calmed.  “Do not worry.”

“I think we should leave, Your Grace.”  Her translator spoke in a hushed whisper, as though she feared she would be heard, her eyes darting around suspiciously.  “I feel as though I am being watched.”

Daenerys could not disagree, and was seized with the same compulsion, to leave this place and seek the comfort of familiar surroundings, a sweeping wave of cold chilling her despite her warmer layers.  “Let us return to the Keep and see if Tyrion has worked his way through the last of the Arbor Gold then, shall we?”

She smiled at her friend, hoping to alleviate the concern she could sense creeping in, both women now holding themselves stiffly as they began to pick their way through the knee-high grasses and back along the shore line.

But she could not see large knob of white, twisted root before it caught the heel of her boot, and she felt herself twisting and falling, unable to catch herself, her head striking another hard protuberance and a searing pain blooming from her temple before everything went black.

\------------

The first thing she felt was a pounding, rhythmic throbbing in her head; it was dull but most persistent, and she was loath to open her eyes fearing it would only exacerbate the pain, choosing instead to stretch her body slowly where she lay.  Daenerys moaned softly, her hand reaching up through the blankets piled atop her body to trace the large knot at her temple, grimacing as it proved just as tender to the touch as she feared.

It took a few moments for her to realize she was not alone, the weight of the bedcoverings and the warm cocoon they created concealing, at least to her bleary mind, that there was an arm draped across her middle.  The hand not tentatively probing her injury slid to confirm what she suspected, her pads of her fingers soon contacting a warm, strong forearm, and at her touch muscles flexed, the unknown arm thrown possessively over her drawing her back gently into the body it belonged to.

Daenerys realized two things right away.

First, it was not Missandei who slept beside her as she had frantically hoped, her mind racing to calm her heart as she’d tried to find a reasonable explanation as to why someone shared her bed.  The body behind her most definitely belonged to a man, and she stiffened at the thought, wondering who dared take such liberties while she was unaware, biting her tongue to keep from screaming and alerting her guards.  She was not even sure she could do so, her voice locked beneath the large lump in her throat, fear and anger raging that someone had presumed such familiarity with her.

Second, and more distressing, whoever this man was, he was most obviously aroused, a fact made clear to her as a thick, hard cock pressed against her back through the thin sleeping shift she wore.  She opened her mouth, prepared to launch into a full-throated verbal assault at whatever man had been foolish enough to find his way into her chambers, when there was a gentle press of lips at the nape of her neck. 

“How is your head, love?  Does it still pain you?”  Her body locked, her eyes shooting wide open despite the pain at the sound of that voice, a voice she knew, a voice that spoke far too intimately with her to possibly belong to the man she suspected.  It could not be, she thought desperately; While he was certainly bold enough to challenge her in her own throne room she had not thought him capable of the sort of boldness that would lead him to sneak into her bed, unclothed, while she recovered from an injury.  In a strange way she was slightly impressed, as he had seemed remarkably awkward around her when they spoke privately.

“Jon Snow.”  Her voice ground out between her teeth, angry and confused.  “What do you think you are doing in my chambers?”

He stilled behind her, silent before she felt his breath puff out in a laugh against her neck.  “Well now…”  His voice was a quiet drawl, full of an playful teasing that he had not earned, his hand stroking along her midsection slowly.  “We have not played this game in some time, My Queen.  However,” his voice sounded disappointed, even as he pressed his body into hers her once more, his erection sliding against her maddeningly in direct conflict with his words, “Sam specifically said you were not to engage in any *strenuous* activities until he had examined you today.  Best to be careful with head injuries.  Unfortunately.”  There was a slight scrape of teeth, the rasp of bearded chin across her shoulder as he pressed one more kiss just below her hairline.

She felt bedclothes stirring as he rose, and finally she turned, slowly, peering cautiously through narrowed lids as he walked across the chambers, *her* chambers, crossing to a dark wooden wardrobe she did not recognize, and pulling out clothing that did not belong to her.  She wanted to scream, to yell, to ask him what in all the realms was happening, how he managed to be in her chambers, why his possessions were there, but the words died on her lips as she took in his naked form, her eyes tracing down a body she not expected to see, perhaps, the defined, corded body of a warrior, the muscles in his back dancing as he selected his clothing wordlessly. 

Daenerys was proud that she did not gasp as her eyes trailed lower, because she was fairly certain that the artisans across the Narrow Sea would clamor to sculpt monuments to Jon Snow’s ass, and for a moment she forgot her anger to take a nice, long look, to etch the sight into her memory before she remembered herself and ordered him from her rooms.

She sat, slowly, letting the man clothe himself before she tossed him from her chambers for his impertinence, but once he’d tugged his breeches on he turned to face her, his eyes lighting up as he came closer, taking her cheek in his hand and turning her head slightly, examining the wound at her temple with a tender gaze. 

He released her face, reaching to the table alongside the bed, handing her a drink that smelled of bitters and pressing it into her hand.  “Drink this.”  She glared at him, about to work up a righteous dressing down the likes of which he would certainly not forget, when he grinned and gave her a pointed look.  “I know you hate it, Dany, but you have to drink it if you want to be able to climb out of that bed today.”

That was the final straw, that name, said so carelessly and with such familiar affection that it infuriated her.  “I want you to explain to me what is happening, Jon Snow, and I want to know this minute.”  Anger threaded through her words, barely checked, her jaw tight and teeth clenched though it made her temple ache.  “How is it that your things are in my rooms?  And how dare you presume to enter my bed?”

Jon Snow looked at her, his smile dying as he studied her, eyes sharpening with poorly concealed worry and confusion.  “What?”

She huffed, draining the drink in one swallow, grimacing at the sharp, acrid taste but knowing it was willow bark from the taste, realizing that he spoke the truth in this at least.  It would ease the pain in her head, but her fear steadily grew with each moment that passed.

“You come here and ask for my help, for my dragons and my armies, you refuse to bend the knee, and then you have the nerve to be in my personal rooms?  Did you think, perhaps, that permission to mine for your dragon glass would entitle you to take other liberties?”  Her voice was growing louder, her eyes scrutinizing him as she spoke, trying to ignore the bare chest before her littered with scars.  She could not afford such distraction, certainly not before he explained to her what he meant by being here in the first place.

Jon Snow knelt beside the bed, his eyes now level with hers, shock and worry dancing across that unfortunately comely face as he hesitantly addressed her, keeping a careful distance away.  “Do you know where you are?”

She nodded slightly, grimacing at the persistent throb in her head.  “Dragonstone.  Do you know where *you* are, Jon Snow?  Because I believe you have your own chambers, my Lord, and should have no need of mine.”  She knew she sounded caustic, aggravated, as she was well within her rights to as such uninvited invasion, but where she expected to see his temper flare in return there was nothing but fear, growing and bleeding it’s way into his eyes and his voice, the muscles in his neck tensing.

“Do you remember falling yesterday?”  He spoke softly now, hesitantly, as though she were a frightened animal, and inwardly she thought she might not disagree with that, swallowing hard against the knot of terror that seemed lodged in her chest.

“I was walking with Missandei, along the southern shore.  I fell and struck my head…and then I woke up here, to find you in my rooms without my invitation.”  Daenerys searched his gaze accusingly, trying to ignore the horror that welled within his eyes at her answer.

“No.  No, that was not what happened.”  She opened her mouth to protest but he continued on before she could speak, every word making the pain worse, making her heart pound faster, because he was very obviously wrong and he would not stop.  “You were there with the girls, Dany, and you tripped on a root and struck your head, but Missandei was not there, she was with Daeron for his fitting.”

She did not know this name, and he acted as though she should.  She did not know which girls he referenced, either, but she was tired of all of it, the racing of her heart sharpening the pain that flared behind her eyes.  Daenerys would have no more of it, any of it.  “I do not know what game you play, and I do not know who you speak of, but I can assure you I perfectly recall how this happened,” she pointed a shaking finger to her temple, “and I will thank you to leave my rooms at once.”

“Daenerys.”  His voice was rough with emotion, something that sounded close to sorrow, and as she watched he shut his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly, before looking upon her once more.  “What is the last thing you remember, before you were injured?”  She saw his hands twitch as though they meant to touch her, to comfort her, and she realized the desperation and confusion she felt must have been plain to him, his expression pained as he waited for her to respond.

“I gave you permission to mine and promised my men and supplies for your task.”  Her fingers twisted against each other above the bedclothes, her hands folded together in her lap.  “Then I walked with Missandei and fell.  That is what I remember, Jon Snow.”

For a moment she wished she had not spoken, as such agony bloomed across his face that she was not sure she could bear it, something in her hating the sight of it, the enormity of his grief and his sorrow as his mouth opened soundlessly, as though he could not find the words he sought.  Finally he succeeded, though, leaning forward slightly, his voice miserable as he spoke.  “Daenerys, that was almost twelve years ago.”


	2. The Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys learns what twelve years have wrought, and meets both old familiar faces and new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT!
> 
> To say we are blown away by the response from you guys is a major understatement! Thank you so much for digging this idea as much as we did, and coming on this ride with us! Strap in, and put your trays in their upright positions!

* * *

 

Though she remained still the man before her sprang into action very quickly, she realized, numb from Jon Snow’s words, how impossible they sounded.  She watched in silence as he finished dressing, taking the opportunity to look at him closely.

Daenerys realized, as she caught glimpses of his face, that he looked older.  There were lines around his eyes, around his mouth.  His hair was as dark as she remembered, but as the morning sun danced across him she thought she could see a few strands of silver.  It was only a scattering, but they were there.  It could not be, though; Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, for surely it was madness to consider that this could be true.

She felt as though she was in a stupor, shock dampening everything to a dull roar inside her head, and she just nodded mutely as he addressed her, more afraid than she could recall seeing him in the short time she had spent in his company since his arrival.

“I’m going to get the Maester.  Stay where you are.”  He cast one last look back at her before he left, so overcome with concern that she could see one gloved hand give a tremor before he pulled the door to her chambers closed.

She closed her eyes, then, sliding back under the comforting weight of furs and blankets and trying to calm her racing mind, trying to understand what it was that had happened, straining to comprehend that Jon Snow could be right, that somehow she had lost nearly twelve years of her life in what seemed to her to be minutes.  She thought for a moment on the scars that marred his skin, scars that were faded and silvered with age, and she wondered at what Ser Davos had spoken of, that first day in her throne room.  He had claimed that the King in the North had taken a knife in the heart for his people, which Tyrion had dismissed as folly, but now she was not so sure.  Suddenly nothing made sense at all.

Daenerys sat up slowly as she heard the heavy wooden door open, drawing the bedclothes up in a sudden rush of modesty when a heavyset man entered the room, followed by an unfamiliar woman and the King in the North.  They all regarded her for a moment, silent, concerned, the man looking back at Jon Snow as if for reassurance and not approaching Daenerys until the brooding King gave him a slight nod.

“The King says you are experiencing some…lapses in your memory, Your Grace.  Do you remember me?”  He had a nice voice, she thought, sweet and friendly.  And kind eyes.  This man had very kind eyes, stranger though he was to her, and she did not shy away when he drew a chair over to the side of the bed so that he might sit and speak with her.

Daenerys shook her head slightly.  “No, I am afraid I do not.  Should I?”

The man sighed, his maester’s chains jingling slightly as he folded his hands across his stomach, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her.  “My name is Samwell.  I serve House Targaryen as your Maester.”  She had no Maester at Dragonstone, of that she was sure.  She was equally sure she had never met this man in her life, but he did not seem to be a threat to her, at least not yet.  She would not lower her guard completely, though; She had learned very well the cost of trusting on appearances alone.

“May I examine your wound, Your Grace?”  At her reluctant nod he reached forward, grasping her chin and turning her head gently into the light.  “Jon, would you open those drapes a bit more?  I need more light.”  He tutted under his breath as he probed along her temple, testing the swollen knot around the perimeter of the wound, stopping each time she winced at the tenderness as he pressed against her skin.  “That’s a right good goose egg, Your Grace.”  He nodded towards the empty cup at her bedside.  “You drank all that, yes?”

“I did.”  She allowed her eyes to wander to Jon Snow, who stood by the windows nearest her, his jaw working as though he ground his teeth in frustration.  He did look older, she was sure of it now.  He was still just as handsome, though, an errant thought that she swiftly dismissed.  Now was not the time for such thoughts, not while she was trying to piece together what had happened to her.

“Gilly?”  The woman who’d entered the room looked at Samwell, giving Daenerys a kind smile as she approached.  This pair did not seem deceitful, she mused, their faces open and concerned.  “Could you fetch a candle?  I need to be sure the Queen is not concussed.”

The woman called Gilly nodded, retreating for a few moments before returning with a lit taper in a copper candleholder.  “This is Gilly, my wife.  Do you remember her?”

Daenerys looked the woman over carefully, tiring of not knowing these strange faces and wishing for something familiar, someone that was hers.  She was growing weary of the looks of disappointment each time she replied in the negative, as she had to do now.  “I’m sorry.”

At her whisper the Maester only smiled sadly, taking the candle from his wife and holding it between them.  “I’m going to make sure everything’s working correctly in here,” he tapped a finger against her uninjured temple, “but I’m going to need to cover your eyes with my hand.  Is that all right?”

It sounded strange, and she could not stop herself from looking to Jon Snow, the only person in the room she knew, who was hovering closer and closer to the bedside as though he were being drawn there, and after an encouraging dip of his chin she nodded at Samwell to continue.  And he did, covering first one eye and then the other, the lit flame dancing close to her face once, then twice before he handed the candle to his wife.

“Well, things appear to be in order physically, but with head injuries it can be hard to measure such things.”  Samwell stood, coming to stand at the foot of the bed and addressing Jon and Daenerys in turn.  “Do you feel nauseous at all?  Dizzy?”

Daenerys considered the question, probing within herself as best she could, but there was no nausea or dizziness that she could detect, just the headache that had plagued her since she’d woken up.  “Not that I can tell.”  She let out a sigh, her fingers toying idly along one of the furs heaped on the bed.  “So I suppose it’s just the headache and forgetting years of my life, Maester.”

Jon Snow cleared his through, but the act did not clear the rough edge in his voice as he spoke.  “Will they come back, Sam?  Her memories?”  He glanced at her quickly, somber and disquieted, then looked back at his friend, as though he worried he would upset her by looking upon her for too long.  She almost wished he would be as he was earlier, teasing and pressed against her in this bed, because that Jon Snow had not looked so miserable and tired, and the more she saw such grief in him the more she wished this was all true, because then perhaps she could remember.  And he had looked at her as though he loved her, deeply, in a way that made her tremble as she watched him speak with the Maester.

Samwell gave a hopeful twist of his lips.  “I don’t see why not.  The mind is a funny thing; not even the Maesters of the Citadel have unlocked all it’s mysteries.  But it is not uncommon to suffer from such after a blow to the head.  We must give it time.” 

It was not the answer she wished for, and she could tell by the downward slope of Jon Snow’s mouth that he was not pleased either, followed quickly by the realization that she was staring at his mouth now and she ought to look away, her eyes darting back to the Maester before this grumpy King caught her in the act.

“Is there anything that can be done?”  She was surprised at the pleading tone in her own voice, horror threatening at the edges of her mind that she could be frozen in such a state forever, years and years of her life simply lost and unrecoverable.  Daenerys felt a dip in the bed beside her, turning slightly to see the woman named Gilly sitting next to her now, grasping her hand warmly.

“Don’t fear, Y’Grace.”  Those kind eyes looked to Samwell.  “Perhaps if the Queen walked the grounds, if she feels able, that is?  Seeing familiar things might set her head to rights?”

The Maester’s head tipped, his eyes sliding upward in consideration.  He stood that way for several seconds, his head dipping this way and that as though he were conversing with himself before he smiled widely at his wife.  “That’s a rather good idea, Gilly.”  But still he gave Daenerys a serious, stern look, as his stare shifted to her, his smile falling away bit by bit.  “But you must take things slowly.  And if you feel any signs of dizziness or nausea I want to be sent for at once, yes?”

She nodded, seeing Jon shift closer to her and the bed at her right, clinging to the slight comfort that at least she *knew* him, no matter the other circumstances, at least not at the moment.  She felt lost and helpless and she detested those feelings more than she was irritated by his actions of earlier.  And so it was easy, then, to raise her hand to him, slowly lifting her eyes in a silent plea to his, relief coursing through her when he took her hand within his own.

“Sam, would you let Tyrion know I’ll be down to receive our guests shortly?”  Though he still sounded gruff, the sharp melancholy edge to his voice had faded somewhat, and he sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, as though he thought any more proximity to him would startle her and cause her to pull away.  She gripped his hand tightly, feeling an answering squeeze in return as the heavyset man nodded, sweeping out of the room in a rustle of robes and the clinking of chain as Jon now looked to Sam’s wife.

“Gilly, would you send for Missandei?  She’s probably with the girls.”  He glanced at Daenerys briefly, his eyes not settling on her for long, shooting up and back to Gilly as soon as they met hers.  “I’m sure the Queen would like her assistance in dressing for the day.”

“O’course, I’ll send her right up.”  The kind, plain-faced woman gave Daenerys one more reassuring look before taking her leave as well, a thick, heavy silence falling over the room, and the Queen struggled to look at Jon Snow now, nerves making her tingle all over, the rough skin of his palm against hers a distraction only made worse by the way his thumb smoothed circles against the back of her hand.

“I must assume that we are married, Jon Snow.”  None had spoken the words aloud but it was plain to her, from the way the others had spoken to them, from his presence against her this morning and the odd mixture of things in this room that had previously belonged only to her, that they must be wed.

Jon Snow looked at her piercingly, his gaze holding something liquid and heated, overshadowed by the sadness that still lingered there nonetheless as he studied her.  “Yes.”

Daenerys drew in a breath and exhaled slowly.  It was not *unwelcome* news, she supposed.  She had known she would need to marry before she’d left Meereen, and there was a small, silly part of her that was gladdened by the confirmation, that had been nursing an intrigued affection for this rebelliously honest man since he’d refused her that first day.  “How long?”

His thumb was still sweeping against her skin, and he gave another tiny squeeze of his hand.  “Eleven years.  Close to twelve, but not quite there yet.”  She thought on this quietly, comparing this against what she remembered.  If that were true then she must have wed Jon Snow mere months after they met, probably at the encouragement of her advisors or his, to obtain an alliance he had been unwilling to give her through fealty.  She might’ve felt a twinge of resentment had he not held her hand so sweetly in his own, with a tenderness she might not have suspected him capable of mere days ago.

“And…” Her question died on her lips as Missandei entered, rushing in and approaching the pair with alarmed worry etched into her features.

“Gilly’s told me everything.”  Daenerys felt herself relax, finally, fully, the presence of the one she trusted above all others leaving her almost weak with relief as the tension drained from her, and she felt Jon Snow release her hand as her translator reached out to grab both of the Queen’s hands within her own.  “We *will* sort this out.  You are going to be fine.”  She sounded so sure, so firm in her belief that Daenerys felt her eyes fill with hot tears, Missandei’s arms going around her at the sight. 

The Queen exhaled raggedly, sniffling slightly as she wrapped trembling arms around Missandei in return, the women locked together in a comforting embrace, with her friend’s hand sweeping against her back in quiet reassurance until both were startled by a throat being roughly cleared.  The King was now standing, pulling on a doublet that looked far more formal and embellished than anything she could recall seeing him wear before, nimble fingers racing along the fastenings as he spoke.  “I should go.  However,” he paused, reaching blindly for a cloak that he fastened at his shoulders with practiced ease, his gaze heavy and serious as he looked from the Queen to her advisor, “if there is *any* change I want you to send for me immediately.”

He stood there, waiting, hands clasped before him and bearded chin jutting out rather stubbornly as he waited for confirmation.  It was Missandei who finally answered, an amused smile playing at her lips as she cast a sidelong look at Daenerys, who watched the exchange with interest.  “Of course, Your Grace.  But what of your guests?”

Jon Snow crossed his arms across his chest, almost looking offended at the question.  “They will wait if they must.  The Queen is more important.”  Missandei nodded, winking at Daenerys conspiratorially when the man crossed the room and pulled a polished silver box from the bureau along the wall, one of two that she could see resting atop the wooden surface.  The pair watched as he pulled forth a crown, wrought of bronze and inlaid with small jewels that twinkled in the morning light, one that must belong to him as there was nothing delicate or feminine about the object, nothing that would suggest it belong to any but this rough Northerner. 

Once it was in place he turned, and she barely managed to stifle a small gasp at the picture he created, a King in truth, an air to him that she could not recall noticing before, something regal in his bearing and dress that made her swallow hard.  But then he frowned, grumbling, “I hate wearing this damned thing.  It’s bloody uncomfortable.” 

Missandei rolled her eyes at Daenerys who covered her mouth with her hand, chuckling at the look on his face, as though that crown was an agonizing itch that he could not scratch and so he must endure, though she suspected he was playing it up for their amusement at the twinkle in those dark eyes.

Her advisor, for her part, gave a loud snort of amusement.  “Uncomfortable it may be, but it does make him look the part, doesn’t it, Your Grace?”  She looked to the Queen, encouragingly, her lips twitching as she tried not to laugh.

Daenerys looked him over, slowly, from crown to boots, a thorough appraisal that made him shift on his feet slightly.  “I think you look very handsome.”  Her words were only slightly louder than a whisper, but he had plainly heard her judging by the satisfied grin he flashed her way, turning on his heel to leave, and calling out to the pair as he existed the room.

“I suppose that will have to do.”  He gave her one last look over his shoulder as he spoke, something reluctant in his eyes as he pulled the door closed and left them alone.

And then it was just Missandei and Daenerys, her friend pulling her close once more, taking care not to jostle the Queen’s head as she embraced her reassuringly.  “We shall sort this all out, my friend.  You will see.  Do not be troubled.”

Finally, finally she let her tears free, frustration and confusion and worry seeping out in hot liquid tracks that ran down her cheeks, and she allowed herself to be comforted by this familiar face, though she had realized at once that Missandei bore the signs of time just as the King did, another confirmation that what she had been told was true.  She let it overwhelm her, just for a moment, before pulling herself together and sitting back slightly, her eyes meeting Missandei’s with a resolute stare.

“I should get dressed.  If I am to remember I should think I would need to do more than sit around and weep in this bed.”

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Much had changed around the Keep, though her bloodriders still guarded the doors, keeping in close step as the women walked arm in arm down hallways and corridors, until Missandei came to a stop before a door that was unfamiliar to Daenerys.  It was true, she had not had time to explore the whole of the Keep, but she was surprised all the same to find that what should have been familiar even without knowledge of this missing time was not.

“There is much and more that you cannot recall, Your Grace, but it will be quiet here, and perhaps you will find that though you do not remember what you will see, it will be a welcome comfort all the same?”  She nodded at her friend’s hopeful question, steeling herself for whatever she might see.

Her friend opened the door slowly, waiting for the Queen to enter before stepping silently into the room behind her, waiting as Daenerys turned in a slow circle in what looked to be a library of sorts, the walls lined with shelf after shelf of bound leather volumes, a spark of excitement at the sight of such collected knowledge.

But when her eyes caught the large portrait that hung above the hearth she froze, breath stilling in her lungs until it was painful, her hand rising to her throat as gave a soundless gasp.

It was her.  She saw herself sitting, elegantly posed, the King standing stoically behind her, the pair of them crowned and startlingly beautiful together, her heart beginning to pound in her chest as air finally forced it’s way into her lungs.  That might have been enough, she thought, but it was the small, dark haired boy that stood beside Jon, as serious as the King in the North save for the small, mischievous smile on his lips that made her frown in confusion, because this was not possible.

And it was the tiny, silver-haired babes that were cradled in this painted Queen’s arms that made her want to cry once more, that taunted her with such impossibility that she could only look at Missandei in breathless wonder as the other woman placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “This cannot be.” 

“It can.”  Missandei leaned forward, whispering reassuringly.  “It *is*.”

Daenerys shook her head, silver curls that hand been hanging artfully over her shoulder tossing about wildly.  “I cannot have children.”

This must be a dream, it had to be, because for all that had seemed rather improbable about her situation since she’d awoken that morning, this was an impossibility, this was something her mind would not allow her to believe was real.  This was her most secret wish realized, captured on stretched canvas and there before her eyes, the thing she wanted more than any throne or kingdom.  That picture showed a family, and she could not allow herself to believe without her heart breaking open once more at the awful truth she had forced herself to accept long ago.  A family was something she would never have.

“You have proven, time and time again, Your Grace, that you are capable of the most impossible things.”  She was pulled forward by her advisor’s gentle grip until she was standing directly before this impossible thing, Missandei’s voice in her ear as she forced herself to look upon the one thing she thought she would always be denied.

“The Prince is called Daeron.”  She gave a shuddering breath as her friend spoke, allowing her eyes to study every detail of that sweet little face, this little lad who had the coloring of the King in the North but something of Daenerys in there as well, she thought, realizing with a start that this boy had her eyes, something familiar in the shape of his chin and the turn of his nose as well.

“The girls are Serena and Aryanna, Your Grace.”  A kind hand squeezed her shoulder.  “Twins.”  Missandei chuckled at Daenerys’s wide eyes.  “Though we did not know it at the time.  It was a surprise for everyone.”

She could hear the door open behind her but she could not command her gaze anywhere else, thinking that if this were naught more than a dream then she would commit it all to memory if she could, even if such knowledge would only torment her waking hours.  Though the babes were small, swaddled in blankets of crimson, she could make out a shock of silver head on each, her arms aching in that moment to hold them, to prove to herself that this was real.

It was the small, whispering voices behind her that finally caught her attention, the sound compelling enough that she turned, slowly, not at all prepared for the sight as it greeted her though she had moments ago so desperately wished for it.

For these were not tiny silver-haired babes at all, but little girls instead, the pair speaking behind small cupped hands as they stared at her, trepidation on their faces and the same sadness she had seen on Jon Snow’s face.  She felt that same rush of guilt, sensing she had been the one to put it there, and she fell to her knees and stretched out her arms, not willing to deny herself the feel of small arms wrapping around her from either side, numb to any lingering pain in her head as warmth swept over her like a comforting cloud.

One of the girls began crying softly; She could feel the hot tears against her neck and she pulled back, looking into a charmingly lovely face, glancing over to see the same features mirrored in the other face that stared at her before slowly looking back at the girl who wept and pressed herself tightly against the Queen’s side.

“Whatever is wrong?”

The girl only cried harder, and it was natural to pull her closer still, trying to comfort this little lass, and Daenerys let her hands smooth over the braided silver hair that was so much like her own that she shivered at the sight of it, the feel of it, breathing deeply and trying her best to calm the girl as her sister regarded them solemnly.

“She thinks it’s her fault that you hurt your head, Mama.  That you can’t remember us.”  An answering wail from the girl in her arms made Daenerys draw back, still cradling the crying girl as she looked between the two.

“Of course it is not your fault.”  The little girl in her embrace only shook her head miserably, so dejected that the Queen gave a small chuckle and tipped her small face up with a finger, forcing the girl to look at her, Daenerys realizing that while the boy in the painting had her eyes, these girls had their father’s, well and truly.  She swept her thumb along the girl’s plump cheeks, stemming the flow of tears that dropped onto the blue silk of the dress the girl wore.  “You mustn’t blame yourself.  It was an accident.”

“But you do not remember us, do you, Mama?”  The other girl spoke now, a bit more composed than her sister, but the same turmoil dwelling in her eyes as she regarded her mother, her lower lip quivering the tiniest bit.

Daenerys could not bring herself to lie to the girl, would not lie to her child, even if all of it was no more than a fever dream of some sort, something she would awaken from that would crack her heart open in devastating sorrow when it was gone.  She shook her head in negative response, biting at her lip at the sadness on the girl’s face.

“I’m Serena.”  She wore a small gown of silver silk where her sister’s was blue, with lace edging along the collar and wrists, looking the picture of a little lady with her neatly braided hair and upturned chin.  Then the girl snuck a comforting hand out to rub her sister’s back, a small gesture but one that made the Queen’s heart ache at the sweetness of it.  “This is Aryanna.”

Aryanna sniffed loudly, her face flushed and eyes puffy and still wet with unshed tears.  “Are you cross with me?”

Daenerys could not answer, all eyes darting to the open door, the Maester Samwell huffing and puffing as he staggered into the room, stopping to catch his breath and holding up a hand for a moment.  “You girls are meant to be at your lessons.”  She could not help but smile at the guilty looks they each bore, Serena biting at her tiny lip before meeting the man’s eyes.

“We’re sorry.  We just wanted to see Mama first.”  Serena rubbed her sister’s back once more.  “And Aryanna was far too distressed to focus on her lessons.”  Daenerys looked to Missandei who seemed to be fighting a smile of her own as Samwell attempted a stern look.

“Your papa said…”

Aryanna interrupted, not looking at the Maester at all but instead at the Queen, stroking a delicate hand lovingly across Daenerys’s cheek, and it was impossible not to lean into the touch as the girl spoke.  “Papa said we are not to disturb Mama while she is recovering.”  Her voice was quiet, an endearing lisp coloring her words, caused by the absence of a tooth in the front.  Her sister had no such issue, and secretly Daenerys felt relieved that at least in this she might be able to tell the two apart.  “Are we disturbing you, Mama?”

The Queen shook her head vehemently, pulling the pair into her arms once more, soothing that ache that had been growing ever steadily, to hold them tightly and assure herself that they were real.  “Never.”  She drew back, trying to smile teasingly at the girls and coaxing smiles from them in turn.  “But perhaps you ought to be off to your lessons, now that you have seen that I am all right?”

She did not want to let them go, but she had many questions that were best answered without their presence, though it pained her to see them gone so soon after she had met them.  Silver heads nodded grudgingly in concert, walking slowly to the door as Samwell ushered them into the corridor.

Daenerys stood slowly, smoothing out her own silk gown, Targaryen red and most lovely under her fingertips, a gown fit for a Queen.  She swallowed, looking into Missandei’s golden eyes, conviction growing within her as she spoke, more command than question.  “Where is my son?”

“Training in the fighting yard, Your Grace.”  Missandei grinned at the Queen’s widened eyes and raised brows.  “Let us go see your little Prince.”


	3. Familiar Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys meets her son, and the wolves come out to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! You guys are awesome and fantastic and beautiful and hey, NoOrdinaryLines and I would come mouth kiss every last stinking one of you but this is the internet. Just pretend we did. :)

* * *

 

Daenerys could her the singing of steel on steel before she and Missandei emerged into the bright courtyard, everything seeming to slow as she stopped, her eyes searching the scene before her with a breathless sense of amazement.  It was not that she had never seen this place; in her memory it existed as well, but whereas before it had been quiet, save for the Dothraki mounts stabled for tending, or the occasional sounds of her Unsullied making use of the space for training it was now a bustling hub of activity.

It had been a place she had avoided, in truth, a place that felt lonely in it’s emptiness, as though it mourned what must have been, once, under the rule of Targaryens long since gone.  It had been a place that felt thick with the ghosts of the past.

But now…

Now those empty fenced yards held pairs of combatants, not Unsullied alone but Dothraki and Westerosi as well, pairings of all ages and sizes who swung their swords, shouting and exclaiming and grunting with effort.

Archers trained at the far end, the twang of bows sharp and familiar to her ears, as the women walked slowly along the catwalk ringing the space, and she smiled as her eyes scanned the younger boys training with swords that were made of wood rather than steel, a familiar solemn face catching her attention immediately.

“Grey Worm.”  She breathed the name and looked to Missandei, who nodded knowingly, a brow arching as she stopped, her hand on Dany’s arm as they looked down to see Grey Worm instructing two slightly older boys training with shortswords.  Those were steel, she saw, but even from above she could tell they were dulled, their edges not lethal but would certainly smart and required respect. 

“And see who is with him.”  The Queen followed her advisor’s instruction, her gaze falling on one of the boys, dark of hair but sturdy build, his raven curls looser than those of his father but bound back in the same manner as the King’s, his face dirty and determined as he circled with the slightly larger Dothraki boy before him. 

This was her son.

For so very long those words had stirred nothing but bitter remembrance within her, a loss from a life she was far removed from now, the child who’d grown within her dead when she’d birthed him.  That life had not been kind to her, had made her believe she would never look upon such a sight as she did now.

But she could not deny that she felt drawn to this boy, that perhaps her eyes could remember what her mind did not, and she could not look away; A beautiful boy, with her eyes, grown much taller now than he’d appeared in the painting she had seen, just as the silver-haired girls had been.

“That is Daeron.”  Missandei’s words were a whisper in her ear and she nodded slowly, drinking in the sight of another impossible thing she had long ago stopped hoping for.  A Targaryen name, she thought.  A prince of her blood.

An heir.

She felt overwhelmed, suddenly, torn between needing to sit and think on what she had seen and wanting stand here on this catwalk forever and watch her child as he sparred, Grey Worm stopping the pair occasionally to correct their stance or adjust their grips.

“How old is he?”  She tried to sound unaffected but it was useless, and her voice cracked with poorly concealed emotion as she finally averted her gaze to Missandei’s.

Golden eyes were soft upon hers as the response came, Missandei’s voice low and soothing.  “His eleventh name day nears, My Queen.” 

“And the girls?”  She wondered at how she could long to see them again so quickly, wishing desperately for the remembrances that would allow her to know these things about herself and her life, yearning to gather them all against her and marvel at them for hours and never let them from her grasp.

In all this madness, at mounting evidence that she had lost more than a decade’s worth of memories, there was no doubt in her mind that these children belonged to her.  And there was a resolve settling itself within her that she had to remember, she must, but if she could not she would spend as much time as necessary relearning everything about them, unwilling to let such a gift slip through her fingers.

Missandei smirked, taking the Queen’s elbow and joining it with hers, walking slowly around the perimeter of the courtyard as she spoke.

“They have just passed their eighth namedays.”  Her advisor stole a glance at the Queen before looking calmly ahead, guiding Daenerys to the far end of the narrow walkway and through doors she knew led back into the main body of the Keep.  “They are lovely children.”  She watched as Missandei’s lips twitched upwards, hungry to know more about them all.  “Though they can, from time to time, exhibit a familiar sort of stubbornness as well.”

Daenerys tried to scoff at the insinuation being made, but the jest in her tone was obvious when she responded.  “Perhaps that is inherited from their father then, dear Missandei, as I seem to recall the King in the North possessing a great deal of stubbornness himself.”  Her stomach gave a nervous twist at the thought of Jon Snow, at the implications of all that she had seen this morning, all these things that were *hers* but she could not remember.  He was one of them, that much was obvious, but he was still something of a mystery to her, no matter the circumstances she now found herself in. 

She needed a meal, she decided, and a hot bath, and then perhaps Missandei might be able to shed some light on exactly how she and the King in the North had gone from barely allies to what they were now.  “I think I ought to rest for awhile, my friend.”  Daenerys hesitated, cursing the flush that crept up her neck and across her cheeks as she spoke.  “I would ask you some things that are of a more private nature, as well, if it is not too much trouble?”

Missandei’s lips pressed together as if she fought a laugh, nodding enthusiastically and changing course to escort the Queen back to her chambers.  But they weren’t only hers anymore, she shared them with a husband she hardly knew, and if she was going to attempt to reconcile her memory with the life she had awoken to, she thought might start there.

\-----------

She was confused by her own hesitation to ask the questions that circled through her mind, and it was not until the Queen and Missandei had eaten their fill, now idly grazing from a dish of purple grapes and sipping wine that she commanded herself to learn the true nature of her relationship with this King she had wed.

“Do I care for him, Missandei?”  Daenerys waited with bated breath as her whispered question hung in the air, realizing in that moment where her hesitancy lay.  If this had been yet another political arrangement, even if the two of them had grown fond of each other, she did not want to extinguish that last dying flame of hope inside her, that someday she might know what it was like to be loved truly, that she might love truly in return.

As she watched her friend’s eyes grew comically wide, a loud bark of laughter escaping before she took a sip of her wine, chuckling slightly even as she answered.  “Yes, my Queen.  You are very much in love with the King, in fact.”

“Oh.”  She closed her eyes at the wave of relief that swept through her, something sweet and secret that she grasped ahold of, that her heart had not been as dead and useless as she had thought when she’d left Meereen.  But another concern, one that tore suddenly and sharply through her, leapt into her mind, the words spilling out quickly before she lost courage.

“And does the King…care for me?”  It would be all the more horrible, she thought, if she loved this man and he did not return such feelings.  He had certainly desired her that morning, that had been clear, but she knew all too well that desire did not require love.

Missandei did not answer, her dark skirts swishing softly as she came to stand before the Queen, her eyes soft and understanding as she crouched and grasped both Daenerys’s hands.

“If I had not been with you these past years, Daenerys,” her golden eyes commanded the Queen not to look away, to listen closely, “I would not have believed any man could love a woman as deeply as your King loves you.”  Her advisor squeezed her now-shaking hands tightly, sensing she was overwhelmed with this, not quite able to believe it could be true but desperately hoping it was, even if she did not yet have a handle on who the man was beneath all those furs and frowning stares.

“It must have been quite a shock to find him in your bed this morning, if the last you remember of him was so very long ago.”  Missandei gave her an innocent look, rising to return to her seat, popping a grape in her mouth and chewing as Daenerys tipped a brow and tried to look stern, only to cover her mouth with her hand and giggle foolishly when her advisor waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

There it was again, that flash of heat that made her cheeks burn, and she tossed a grape in mock outrage at the woman seated across from her, burying her face in her palms as her shoulders shook, the memory of him pressed so closely against, his hands on her so intimately, as though they belonged there.  And she realized that for him, that was most certainly the case, and while it had been a shock for her it must have been blow for him as well, if indeed he loved her as Missandei claimed.

“Yes, quite a shock.”  The Queen released her advisor’s hand and fiddled with the silk of her skirts, unsure of what she should do about Jon Snow. It seemed unfair to require that he distance himself completely from her; She understood the reality of what she was now facing.  He suffered from no loss of memory, and she was his wife, the mother of his children.  He had called her his Queen that very morning, his breath hot against her skin, his lips so gentle as he’d kissed her.

She would need to speak to him, this evening perhaps, to sort out how they would proceed until she could remember what was lost to her.  And because of her current state, she could allow herself to admit something that she had denied herself quite sternly in the days that had passed since she’d first met the stoic King, the answer to the question Missandei had asked her only yesterday, but which had, in truth, been asked more than a decade ago.

She *did* think he was handsome, she had even wondered idly what it might be like to kiss him, what sort of lover such a quiet man would be.  Daenerys had not taken a man to bed since Daario, and she could admit she had been intrigued in what might exist beneath Jon Snow’s gruff exterior.

Missandei stood when a knock sounded at the door, waving in the attendants who’d come to draw the Queen’s bath and taking Daenerys’s hand once more, pulling gently to help her rise.  The pain that had dulled in her temple was returning, and at the mention of it Missandei was off, fetching more of the bitter but effective tonic while Daenerys looked around the rooms that she now shared with a King.

The Queen paced slowly around the room, her eyes spotting objects here and there that were not hers, her fingers trailing over a set of outer leathers discarded on a low bench, the tip of her index finger tracing idly over the sigil of House Targaryen embossed into the chest, finely-detailed.  These were Jon’s, of course, far to large to be hers.

There was something different to the pattern, though, and as she knelt for a closer look she realized immediately what it was.  The three-headed dragon remained, she saw, but it was within the heart of that familiar symbol that she saw the difference.  A direwolf snarled from within the center, as though the two existed together now, a symmetry to the merging of these two sigils that touched something deep within her, that stirred her in a way that surprised her.

She must love Jon Snow, she realized, for this symbol of her dying House had been most precious to her.  But together, she thought, perhaps they had made something new between them.  Daenerys knew herself well enough to know that this was something she would have allowed only if she considered the King in the North her equal.

And she knew she would not have considered him such unless he truly was.

Daenerys sat heavily on the bench, pulling the leathers into her lap now, tracing the pattern again and again.  She felt so lost that she thought she would weep, wondering for the first time if it was a crueler fate to believe she would never have this life, or to have it but have no memory of it at all.

The door cracked open, the sound of it breaking her from her melancholy stupor, but it was not Missandei who entered. 

Daenerys sat very, very still, her breath releasing in ragged exhales as the largest wolf she’d even seen entered the room, his great white head swinging back and forth until he spotted the Queen, and she fought every instinct she had to remain motionless as this beast approached.  His eyes were red as rubies, staring deeply into her eyes for several breathless moments until he finally sat on his haunches before her, his head tipped to the side curiously.  He seemed to be waiting, but for what she could not be sure.

He was a Direwolf, she realized.  A real one.  In her rooms.

And he was staring at her as if he knew her.

The door burst open wider, and out-of-breath Jon Snow entered, wide-eyed and alarmed as he took in the scene.

“Don’t be afraid.”  He kept his voice calm but she could see he was concerned for her, walking slowly towards her and dropping a hand onto the white, furry head of the creature before her.  “It’s just Ghost.”

“Ghost.”  At her whisper the wolf looked to her again, whining and nudging at her hands with his muzzle, giving her the most pitiful look she’d ever seen.  It reminded her of when her dragons had been small, when they’d ridden atop her shoulders and curled in her lap, and she was not afraid as she slowly reached her hands forward to stroke the animal’s soft white fur.  How beautiful he was, she thought, glancing up at Jon Snow who watched in silence, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“He’s yours, isn’t he?”

The King in the North nodded, sitting beside her now on the bench, but keeping a respectable distance as he looked between the Queen and his wolf.

“Aye.  I’ve had him since he was a pup.”  She scratched behind the wolf’s ears, chuckling at the loud, satisfied groan that issued forth from deep in Ghost’s throat, a feeling of contentment washing over her as that great head came down to rest upon her lap.

“Why did you not bring him with you to Dragonstone when you first came?  Because I can assure you,” she slid a hand down the wolf’s neck, marveling at how silky he was, something soothing about the feel of him beneath her palm, “I would have been very impressed.”

Jon Snow looked upon her so fondly, so sweetly then that she had to smile back at his wry grin.  “So I have been told.  Repeatedly.”  He sighed, some of his amusement falling away as he continued.  “But I had to leave him at Winterfell then, to protect what little family remained to me.”  His dark eyes fell on Ghost, now, and it thrilled something inside her when he spoke to his wolf, as though he were no beast at all but a friend.  “Luckily he did not mind.  Ghost protects his pack.  Though it’s not quite so easy anymore, is it old man?”

Daenerys was shocked by the giggle that escaped her lips, the look the wolf gave to Jon so very aware and aggrieved that she could do nothing to stop it.  Ghost let out chuff in Jon’s direction and turned his face away, nuzzling his head further into the Queen’s lap.  Something about the exchange struck her, and she looked up from the wolf to stare at Jon Snow in burgeoning surprise.

“Does he understand you?”  Her breath caught at the King’s nod.  “How?”

“I am a warg, Daenerys.”  At her look of confusion he smiled sadly, yet another thing that must be explained, clearly something she had known but no longer did.  “He is no regular wolf.  Direwolves were as rare as dragons for a very long time.  But both exist once more, now, in greater numbers than they did.”  She watched as he stroked his hand along the wolf’s head.  “I can see his mind, and he can see mine.  That is, perhaps, the simplest explanation.”

Daenerys considered him as he stared at his wolf, wondered at what else lurked beneath the surface of this man, because each new revelation seemed to explain exactly what it was that had led her to fall in love with him.  How achingly bittersweet it was, to know that she had grown to love him but to lack the memories that accompanied that truth, and before she could stop herself she grasped his hand in hers.

“I’m sorry.”  At her whispered apology his eyes locked with hers, and she could see, just for a moment, how very hard this was for him.  She could see how much he loved her, in that brief second, before he masked it with a half-smile.

“You’ll remember.”  He squeezed her hand tightly, as though he were hanging on to her with all he had, and it made her chest ache as tears welled in her eyes.

“How can you sound so sure, Jon Snow?”  A tear escaped, tracking down her cheek before he caught it with the thumb of his free hand, cupping her jaw gently, looking at her with tentative eyes as though he sought her reassurance that it was acceptable for him to touch her so.

“I have yet to see you fail at anything you wish to accomplish.”  She gave a watery laugh at the assurance in his voice.  She did pride herself on her determination at achieving the impossible, that much was true.  “I refuse to believe this will be any different.”

She leaned her forehead against his, the warmth of his touch, the depth of his belief in her almost overwhelming.  Daenerys looked at him through parted lids, his breath hot against her lips now in their sudden nearness, and though a part of her mind told her she ought not kiss this man she barely knew, another told her that she must, that this was right, that his lips were made to fit against hers and she was foolish not to seek out such contact at every opportunity.

They were parted, however, but the sound of a throat clearing, Missandei suddenly there with something for the ache in her head, and she was horrified at the way she ducked her head shyly, Jon Snow merely rising and chuckling at the sight of her advisor.

“Ghost wishes to stay here, if it please you.”  His voice was gentle, looking between Missandei and the Queen until Daenerys nodded.  She was gladdened to have answered so when his face sagged in relief, his smile true and bright as he made to leave.  “Good, he’s been trying to get in here all day, been driving me a bit mad, really.” 

He left without another word, the door closing soundly behind him, and Missandei took a seat beside her, right where the King had sat, handing her the cup she’d brought and giving her a knowing look.

Daenerys drained it in one large swallow, grimacing at the taste before meeting her friend’s gaze, the woman silent but her eyebrows slowly rising as the corners of her lips twitched.

“Not a word.”  Missandei began giggling uncontrollably at the Queen’s attempt at a stern look.

“You were going to kiss him, weren’t you?”  She was clutching at her stomach now at Daenerys’s widened eyes.  “How very bold.”

The Queen stood, the white wolf padding behind her silently as she crossed the room, attempting to glare at Missandei but not managing to stifle her own smile at her friend’s amusement.  “He is my husband, is he not?”

Daenerys took a seat at the large dressing table before the window, feeling Missandei approach before she saw her, the pair watching the attendants exit the adjoining room with gentle dips of their chin  before the women found themselves alone once more.

“Oh, yes, he is.”  Gentle fingers began to unbraid her hair, and then Missandei was leaning, her face reflected beside the Queen’s in the mirror.  “Perhaps you ought to see what might be remembered by encouraging *further* exploration, hm?”

“Now is not the time for such nonsense.”  She tried for sternness, but at the twinkle of unspoken knowledge in her friend’s golden eyes she asked one more question, something so very private she wondered that Missandei might not know the answer, but assuming that if anyone would it was the woman beside her.

“Do I find him…pleasing?”  She could see her own cheeks darken in the mirror, Missandei’s fingers continuing their work as she considered the Queen’s whispered question.  She was quiet for so long that Daenerys began to worry, a silly selfish thing to ask about, she knew, but when he had touched her moments ago she had felt a desire for him begin to build, and she had to believe that her body remembered his touch even if she did not.

“Let us say,” golden eyes met hers in the mirror, nimble fingers working loose braid after braid, “that it is not uncommon, if we are unable to locate you and the King, for the pair of you to be, as Tyrion puts it, rutting away like animals.”

Daenerys clapped a hand over her mouth as Missandei finished speaking, laughing in spite of her Hand’s crass description.  In this she knew herself as well; she very much doubted she would have maintained such apparent appetites for the Northern King unless she found him satisfying, though the admission from her friend sent another wave of desire through her, only fueling the spark he had lit in her moments ago.

“I see.”  She cleared her throat, straightening her shoulders.  “That is most reassuring.”  Daenerys kept her silence until her hair streamed freely down her back, taking the time to study her own face in detail, noting that she had aged as well, the face in the mirror having acquired a few lines around the eyes just as the King’s had, not a marked difference from the face she remembered seeing, but different enough that it was yet another detail that showed her the truth, that this was real.

“Come now, Your Grace.”  Missandei took her hand, leading her to the chambers off the room that was clearly for bathing, the water steaming in the large copper tub facing a great, arching window.  “I should think some relaxation is in order.”

\----------

Daenerys had climbed into the large, soft bed, dozing on and off, a gentle knock at the door finally rousing her to full wakefulness.  She looked over to see Ghost beside her, his head twisting around to face the door as she sat up slowly and called for the party to enter.

She had not expected to see the boy from the training yard, her son entering the room quietly and walking over to the bedside, with his father’s face and her very own eyes peering down at her, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to her, just then, to embrace him, breathing deeply as small arms circled her neck with surprising strength.

And she could hear his father’s worry in the boy’s voice, a roughness to it that reminded her of Jon Snow’s though it had not deepened to a man’s timbre yet.  “Are you feeling better, mama?”

Daenerys stroked a hand against the boy’s cheek, still soft like a child’s but she could see the man that bloomed beneath, not yet ready to emerge but lurking just below the surface.  She wished she could remember what it was like to hold him as a babe, but she scolded herself that she must, for now, focus on what was before her and treasure the knowledge that this boy was *hers*. 

“Much better now.”  Ghost yawned lazily, rising with a swish of his tail to lick a rough tongue across the boy’s cheek, and his merry laugh was so instant and infectious that she joined in, her amusement growing as he swiped a hand across his cheek with a look of feigned disgust.

“By the Gods, Ghost, what did you eat?”  He looked to Daenerys, smiling wider at the sound of her laughter.  “Papa says Ghost has the worst breath in all the realms.”

Daenerys sat up, patting the bedclothes beside her and grinning as her son hopped up easily to sit beside her.  “Does he now?

Her son gave a chuckling nod, and she noticed that he must have sought out his own bath after his training session, the dirt and grime from the training yard gone, and his hair loose now, unbound, gentle curls framing his face like a halo.

He was so beautiful, this boy, and her fingers lit upon the crown of his head to stroke the soft hair beneath her fingers.

“But I think Shadow’s breath is worse.”

The name was unfamiliar to her, and Daeron seemed to notice right away, a flash of realization there on his face before he hopped up quickly, calling out over his shoulder as he ran for the chamber doors, “I’ll be back in a moment!”

Daenerys looked at Ghost, puzzled, but the wolf only heaved himself down beside the hearth, groaning as though he knew what came with the boy’s return.

And that might’ve been true, she thought, the door banging open as her son returned, his arms full of a wriggling wolf of his own, clearly a pup, full of excitement as the boy released him, his fur white but his face masked in black, with blue eyes where Ghost’s were red.  Her son had a wolf, just as his father did, and she laughed for fear that she might otherwise cry as she knelt before the squirming pup, the small tongue bathing her face in kisses before she looked back at her little prince.

“That’s Shadow.  He’s my direwolf.”

He was smiling, such love and affection for her in his eyes that she opened her arms to him, holding her tightly against her once more before she whispered something in his ear, something that earned a peal of laughter as the wolves in the room watched.

“You’re right.  His breath is absolutely dreadful.”

Daeron pulled back, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth, his eyes thoughtful as he studied her.  “Are you coming to dinner in the hall?” 

Daenerys glanced back at the windows, realizing more time must have passed than she thought as the sun was beginning to set, shades of gold fading to red as the day ended.  “Of course.  Why wouldn’t I?”

Her son’s focus turned to the knot at her temple, and she knew it must look a fright, although the rest and tonics had done wonders for the pain.  “That looks like it smarts.”  He leaned closer, whispering loudly.  “And I should probably warn you, the girls get a little…*loud*.”

Daeron looked so serious, his expression so much like Jon Snow’s in that moment that it made her smile widely, and she tousled his hair, laughing as he ducked away from her hand.

“Well, loud they may be.”  She stood, ready suddenly to see her daughters again, to see all of her children together in the same room, to share a meal with them.  She could not sit and dwell in the past, on what was lost to her, on memories that might not ever return.  Daenerys glanced at her son as she rummaged for a gown that would be simple enough to put on herself, not wanting to delay something she had long wished for because she’d chosen to wear something complicated.  “But I think I should very much like a meal with my family, no matter the volume.”

Whether this was dream or truth mattered very little to her, she realized.  Because now she had, within her grasp, those things which fate had sought to deny her, and she would take it in both hands and hold it tight with all her might.  And should the fates decide to wrest it away from her, she hoped they understood one thing.  She was Daenerys Targaryen, and she would not give up what was hers without a fight.


	4. Wolves of Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The triumphs and troubles of parenting. Inappropriate words. Food is thrown. Thanks a lot, Tyrion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're here! We *will* still be updating, just much more slowly as I am the final stitcher together of narratives and I am dead-ass falling asleep on TinyLight's floor at 8:30 every night. But a free Friday afternoon? Fic time fellow Jonerys fans, so let's fucking do this!

 

* * *

Daeron had been correct; walking into the small stone hall off the main dining hall felt akin to walking into a literal wall of sound.  Daenerys stopped, frozen in place for a moment, her son’s small arm beneath her palm as he gamely escorted her to dine with the rest of their family.

For a few thick, thunderous seconds all she was capable of was looking, truly *seeing* what was before her, letting the reality soak in to her confused mind so that she might gather herself together.  This hall did not have the structure she had been expecting.  No table was set above another; instead she saw the girls she knew to be her daughters shrieking and laughing loudly from the table against the far wall, the table nearest the lit hearth. 

Ghost darted forward now, from his self-appointed post behind Daenerys and Daeron, his large white form not even turning a single head as he silently approached the silver-haired twins.  Suddenly, frantic yips and barks could be heard, and then two wriggling furry forms emerged from under the table, cream and copper-haired, circling the larger wolf who nipped at each of the small pups in turn as though he were scolding them to behave.

Shadow broke free as well from his place at Daeron’s side, his manner much more restrained than the other pups in the room, and as the Queen watched all three pups sat on their haunches before Ghost, as though they awaited his further instruction.

When Ghost heaved himself down to lay prone upon the stone floor the smaller wolves did the same, much to Daenerys’s delight, each of them letting out little sighs as they curled in against each other to rest.

Daenerys fought to keep her face from cracking with the emotion that welled within her.  She did not know why, not at first.  But something within her knew, and the answer whispered along the edges of her mind.

_This is a home, Daenerys.  You have a family.  Look._

The Queen allowed her eyes to linger on them all, now, her daughters finally returning to their seats as Jon Snow gave them an uttered direction, too low for her to hear from where she stood.  Beside the man she had wed sat other faces that were very familiar; Tyrion, who caught her stare and gave her a small, reassuring twist of his lips and salute with his goblet of wine, seated beside Davos, the Hand of the King in the North, older still than he had been with hair of snowy white, his eyes kind and warm as he dipped his chin her way.

She struggled to catch her breath as her eyes came to rest on Jon Snow himself, who watched her carefully with dark eyes and a calm face, as though nothing were amiss.  Daenerys knew she must follow his lead, in this, for it was not only faces known to her that were present in this room, the rows of tables filling the rest of the space lined with curious eyes as the Queen and the Prince stood just inside the threshold.

Dany would not show weakness if it could be prevented.  Allowing herself to be overwhelmed publicly was out of the question, she knew.  It may very well be true that she and Jon Snow ruled the Seven Kingdoms now, and if such was the case then she could not assume that her family was without enemies.

So, she schooled her features into a placid expression, her free hand giving a nervous sweep down her dark skirts as she looked to her son.  He was watching her as well, she realized, concerned and almost protective, his eyes darting around at the tables of people she did not know as though he were warning them off.  “Ready, Mother?”

\------------

Daenerys was not sure she was tasting the food that passed her lips, her other senses completely swamped with what she saw and felt before her, the distractions that surrounded her on all sides.

Her daughters chattered endlessly, regaling the table stories she found it rather hard to follow; they would complete each other’s sentences and pick up the thread of the conversation so seamlessly that she felt as though she would become dizzy looking back and forth between them.

“Just nod.”  Jon Snow’s voice was low and rough in her ear, amused as he must have sensed her predicament.  She had been trying fruitlessly to ignore the way his elbow grazed hers almost constantly, her body engaging in a traitorous rebellion of what her mind told her to do.  Her skin, it seemed, was familiar with his touch, her blood heating and warming her cheeks as his words tickled against the skin of her ear.  “Getting them to explain what they mean takes even longer.”

The Queen chuckled quietly, her teeth grasping at the soft skin of her lower lip as she finally turned to look at the man seated beside her, this King who was her husband.  She found that a lamentable decision, however, as his eyes were upon her mouth for far longer than was advisable, lingering openly before he seemed to catch himself and slowly met her eyes.

Jon Snow cleared his throat, his eyes almost ashamed, and she found she hated it, that shame that dwelt there, shame at being caught admiring the woman he was wed to.  She hated it bitterly for a moment, because he had committed no wrong.  The fault was hers that she did not remember their life together, not his.

“Sorry.”  It was muttered in haste, his gaze leaving hers to fall upon his plate, his hand reaching absently for cutlery before she stilled his movement with a hand upon his wrist, skin against skin.

“No apologizing, Jon Snow.”  She sniffed, keeping her hand where it was, pressing even more firmly when he started to pull away from the contact.  “You did nothing wrong.”  Daenerys was not sure why it bothered her so, that he was so quick to apologize to her, to capitulate to her every whim.  Perhaps it was that it seemed to unlike the man she *did* remember, who would not bend to her wishes at all.  Perhaps, she wondered, she had killed that streak in him, and she found she abhorred the idea.  His ability to irritate her had been one of the most annoyingly attractive things about him in that first meeting.

Daenerys realized he must have heard the challenge in her tone, because something shifted in his gaze, his eyes growing ever darker as he studied her, cocking his head to the side before leaning in, pressing his body into hers briefly as he whispered, “I wasn’t apologizing for something I had done.  I was apologizing for something I *wanted* to do.”

Breath escaped from her swiftly, as though she had been struck.  She drew back, knowing her face betrayed how shocked she was at his boldness, though she fought to suppress a smile all the same.  That was exactly the boldness that had intrigued her so, though this particular brand of it was dangerous to her defenses, flimsy though they were.

Thankfully she was saved from Jon Snow’s amusingly attractive forwardness by Daeron, who had been engaged in a heated discussion with Ser Davos, but who now turned his attention to his parents as he took a few bites of food, giving Daenerys a sweet smile before his eyes looked to Jon.

“Papa?”

Jon hummed in response, tearing his gaze from Daenerys, still chuckling slightly at her surprise as he focused on the boy across from him.

“What’s a brothel?”

Jon Snow started choking with such tremendous force that she feared for his life, and it was almost automatic to reach over and hit his back, hoping to help him dislodge whatever his son’s question had caused to become caught in his throat.

As he fought to regain his composure Daenerys turned to look at Daeron, who stared upon his father with worried eyes.  “Where did you hear that, Daeron?”  Eyes so like her own met hers as her son heard her question, and her suspicions were confirmed the moment his gaze rested upon her Hand.

“Lord Tyrion was telling a joke in the Yard earlier, and I understood the other bits but I didn’t know what ‘brothel’ meant, and when I asked him he said I should ask Papa.”  The Prince looked increasingly upset, as though he realized that perhaps this word was not one meant for mixed company, and Daenerys narrowed her eyes at her Hand, who looked up guiltily and sighed.

“I meant for you to ask him *privately*, my Prince.”  Tyrion shook his head, swallowing the remaining wine in his goblet and refilling it immediately.  “Not while dining with your parents.”

Jon Snow interrupted, having gathered his wits and downed several sips of ale himself before clearing his throat.  “It’s not a word meant for public, lad, but I will tell you later.  Privately.”  There was censure in his father’s voice, just a hint but it was there, and Daeron bowed his head slightly.

“Yes, Papa.”

The King’s face lost it’s sternness, and as Daenerys watched he gave his son an amused smile.  “Don’t fret over it, you didn’t know.”  Jon leaned over, gesturing to the boy across from him to do the same, the King’s thick leathers creaking as he shifted closer.  “But next time ask Papa before dinner,” his eyes shot dramatically to where Tyrion sat, “especially if it’s a word you heard from Tyrion.”  His overloud whisper made the boy smile, and she was charmed to see how easily Jon Snow managed to cheer the young Prince past his embarrassment from moments ago.

“Yes, Papa.”

Jon Snow smiled, wide and warm, the corners or his eyes wrinkling as he looked at his son.

_Their son._

How had she not seen how very beautiful he was?  For she was, certainly, but he was as well, for all his stiff awkwardness in those first few days.  There was an elegance to his features, she thought, as she studied his profile, a scrutiny she did not cease when he cast his eyes her way again.

Jon Snow began to lean towards her once more, and this time she was drawn towards him as well, mindless to those who surrounded them, bewitched by the way his lips seemed to twitch in amusement at her in-depth study of him, his lips parting as though he would speak when a small, silver head thrust it’s way between them.

“Mama, you’ll never guess what I did today!”  It was Aryanna, she knew, silently thanking whichever Gods had taken the girl’s tooth, the slight lisp coloring almost every word the young girl spoke.  She was so very excited that Daenerys had to smile, sitting back slightly now as her daughter firmly planted herself in front of the Queen.

“What?”  Small, strong hands gripped both of hers, and she could feel herself slipping under the girl’s spell, her enthusiasm and innocence a heady combination that left Daenerys waiting almost impatiently for the answer, so that she might share in whatever adventure her child had embarked upon that day.

“I rode Ghost all the way across the ridge!”  Those northern eyes flashed with glee, and Daenerys began to chuckle as she glanced up to Jon, who watched the exchange from over Aryanna’s shoulder.  He too, looked amused, but he gave her a stern nod and tipped his head in the girl’s direction.

“Aryanna.”  Jon’s voice was serious, and this little girl with her father’s eyes looked remarkably guilty just then, as if she had completely forgotten the King was directly behind her.  Her eyes grew large as she stared at Daenerys, grimacing slightly as Jon spoke again.  “What’s the rule?”

The little princess worried her lip between her teeth just as Daenerys did, her small hands still gripping the Queen’s tightly as she considered her father’s question.  “Do not ever enter your chambers without knocking first.”

Daenerys pressed her lips together so tightly she worried they would turn white from the pressure, her brows flying up as her eyes shot to Jon Snow’s, who pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighed heavily.  His shoulders convulsed, however, and she could see he fought his own amusement as he responded.  “That is a rule, yes.  But what is the rule about Ghost?”

Aryanna looked down at her feet, silver braids gleaming in the firelight, speaking so softly both her parents struggled to hear the almost whispered words of her reply.  “Ghost is not a horse.”

“That’s right.”  Jon Snow laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, turning her slightly so that he could see her face.  “Are we going to have to have this discussion again?”

“No, Papa.”  She looked so truly sorry that Daenerys wanted to scoop her up and comfort her, but she fought the urge as she gathered this was not the first time such an issue had arisen.

“I hope not.”  Jon stared levelly into the girl’s eyes.  “Next time you will leave the table with no dessert.”

Daenerys almost scoffed; that hardly sounded like a deterrent, really, but then she saw the abject horror on the small face before her as she looked between the King and Queen. 

“But, Papa…”  The girl’s voice trailed off, her eyes almost pleading as she looked back to the King.  “Papa, I *love* dessert!”

Jon Snow nodded solemnly, sternly, just the barest twitch of his lips indicating to Dany that he found the girl’s overdramatic forlornness as amusing as she did.  “Well, then, perhaps you will try harder not to treat Ghost like a mare.  He’s too old for such treatment, little lamb.”

An irritated huff came from the large heap of furry bodies, as though Ghost took great offense to such a remark, something that did not escape the princess’s attention.

“He likes it, though, Papa!”  Jon sighed once more, shooting Daenerys an exasperated glance as he plucked the girl from where she stood and placed her on his lap, still facing the Queen so that Aryanna sat perched between them.

“Ghost allows you to do that because he knows that *you* want him to.  But Papa has asked you not to ride on him several times, lass, because he is very large and you are very small.”  The King tipped the girl’s chin up with a finger, his voice thick with emotion.  “If you were to get hurt Ghost would be very upset.  You wouldn’t want to make him sad, would you?”

Aryanna looked sadly at first Daenerys, then at Jon, finally throwing her small arms around her father’s neck and crying out on a broken sob, “I’m sorry, Papa!  It’s just that it is so very fun and Silverwing cannot hold me yet!”

Daenerys felt a tug on the sleeve of her gown and turned to look at her side to find the silent Serena smirking.  “That’s her direwolf.”  Understanding washed over her and she covered her mouth with her hand to smother the laugh that lurked just beneath, Serena doing the same as they looked upon each other, mother and daughter.

“I know, lass, but for now it’s best that you stick to the horses in the stable, yes?”  Jon was speaking quietly to the crying girl, a hand patting her back as Daenerys turned back to watch, his face tender as the little princess nodded against his neck, sniffling loudly.

“Yes, Papa.”  Aryanna swept a small hand across her eyes, scrubbing the tears from them, turning slowly to look at her brother who snickered behind his hand across the table.

“What are you laughing at?”  The princess’s eyes narrowed, hurling the question hotly across the table at Daeron who looked taken aback before he narrowed his eyes in return.

“You’re acting a bit like a baby.”  Daenerys watched the girl’s eyes widen in outrage, and before the situation could escalate she found herself interjecting, not even sure she was handling things correctly but sure that she recognized that look of anger in her daughter’s stare as one she herself was capable of, knowing she ought to stop things now if she could.

“Daeron, don’t call your sister names.”  She tried to sound scolding, but not angry, uncertain if she had struck the correct balance or gone too far when the boy dipped his head in apology, looking at her in chagrin.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

Daenerys sat for a moment, pleased that she seemed to have stopped the drama between the pair, when suddenly Aryanna was whipping a vegetable plucked from her father’s plate across the table, hitting her target with a resounding smack as the sodden lump hit her brother in the forehead.

“I’m not a baby!”  Her daughter maintained a bubbling outrage, but the act itself seemed to amuse her brother, Daeron laughing at he looked at the potato that had landed on his plate.  “You don’t even know what a brothel is!”

Now Jon was sucking in a breath, looking at the girl in shock.  “You’d better not know what one is either, young lady!”

Aryanna crossed her arms across her chest.  “I didn’t say I did.” 

Serena piped up from Daenerys’s side, all eyes on her as she wiped her mouth primly with her napkin.  “I know what it is.”  Jon must have looked upon his other daughter with the same look of horror as the Queen did, but the girl only shook her head as though she had run out of patience with all of them.  “I read it in a book.”  Now she narrowed her eyes as well, her stare bouncing back and forth from her brother to her sister.  “And I’m not telling either of you.  It’s not appropriate for children.”

Jon Snow cleared his throat, his eyes long-suffering as they met the Queen’s.  All she could do, in that sliver of a second, was smile wearily at him, suddenly realizing how tired she was from the day and all that had transpired.

“Perhaps it is time for everyone to prepare for bed, yes?”  Three sets of eyes looked upon her sadly, and nodded.  Jon Snow, though, did not look upon her sadly.  He smiled gladly at her in return, reaching out a hand to grasp hers, squeezing tightly before releasing her.

\------------

Daenerys thought it must have been an hour, at least, before the girls had allowed her to leave their chambers, stumbling over themselves to introduce her to their wolves.  And she learned that where Daeron’s wolf maintained a bit of composure, her daughter’s wolves were wildly disparate in temperament.  Sky, Serena’s wolf, lay calmly at the foot of her daughter’s bed, allowing the Queen to stroke her silken fur and licking delicately at Dany’s palm in return.

Silverwing, she learned, was as wild as Aryanna, racing around the room with the small princess who whooped and yelled like a Dothraki screamer before collapsing on her bedcovers, panting along with the small wolf as they both watched Daenerys pull up the blankets and furs to tuck the girl in.

“Sleep well.”  She pressed a kiss to Aryanna’s sweaty forehead, smiling at the grinning girl and sweeping flyaway silver hairs away from her face.

“You too, dear girl.”  She kissed Serena’s temple, tucking furs under the point of the girl’s small chin.

She walked around the room, blowing out the scattered candles and extinguishing the lamps, pausing at the wooden door to look at them one more time, something twisting painfully in her gut that she might wake in the morning to find it all nothing more than a desperate dream.  It was easy, at that notion, to let her eyes dance across their faces washed in moonlight, their eyes glittering as they watched her, the image burned into her mind even as she closed the door and made her way down the quiet corridor.

\-----------

Jon Snow sat illuminated by orange firelight, his eyes closed and his legs stretched out before him, having claimed one of the plush armchairs before the hearth for himself, not even stirring as she entered their chambers.

Daenerys thought this a good opportunity for further study of him, this man who had given her the life she had always wished for but never dared believe was possible, and she took a seat nearby, just looking upon him quietly until he turned his head to the side to peer at her.

“Go on then.”

She was startled at his gruff utterance, his mouth a tense line but mirth twinkling in his eyes as he let his eyes skim over her in return.

“Ask.”

Daenerys tipped her head at him, puzzled, feeling her cheeks flush once more now that she was the sole focus of his attention, something which was both exciting and confusing in her current state, a part of her very much wishing he’d strip of the breeches and tunic he remained clad in and join her in their bed as he had been this morning.

She responded, if only to distract herself from the rather tempting path her mind was wandering down.  “Ask what?”

His skin looked almost as if it glowed, one side lit with firelight as he continued to look at her.  “Whatever it is you wish to ask, Daenerys.”  He rolled his head back to the front, his eyes now trained on the flames.  “I know that look.”

She shifted uncomfortably; There were several topics she would *like* to ask about but she found herself unsure in his presence, and she grasped around for something, anything to inquire about that was not deeply personal.   “Did you tell Daeron what a brothel is?”

Jon Snow let out a bark of laughter, now free to show his own amusement at the events that had transpired that even, and she was helpless against the grin that worked it’s way across her own features.  He sat up, gazing at her with a smile.  “I told him that by the time he was old enough to know, he wouldn’t need to ask.”

She giggled, clapping her hand over her mouth until her merriment subsided, clearing her throat and attempting a look replete with propriety.  “How very diplomatic of you.”

The King in the North nodded, bracing his elbows on his knees and rubbing his temples with his hands.  “He’ll learn soon enough.  No need to hurry such things along before their time, though.”  He was wise, she thought.  He was a good father, this man, this King that she had married yet could not remember.

Fear gripped her in that silence, choking the breath from her, filling her eyes with tears, her vision so blurred that she did not know he approached until he was right in front of her, his hands warm and rough as they cupped her cheeks.

“Don’t cry.”  She felt a tremor run through his palms, realized with heartbreaking clarity that he was just as afraid as she was, and finally she stopped thinking and did as she desperately wished, throwing her arms around his neck as he crouched before her, sniffling against his neck just as the little princess had earlier.

“I’m afraid.”  She was not sure he had heard her whispered admission until a shudder swept through him, his arms tightening around her in response.

“Aye, so am I.”  Dany pulled back, seeing wetness pooling in Jon Snow’s eyes, fear heavy in his stare.  “What are you afraid of, Daenerys?”

She closed her eyes, pulling him close once more, savoring the warmth of him against her, the solidness of him, the proof that this, right now, was real.  “That I have the life I always wanted, and I’ll never remember it.”  She pressed her forehead against his shoulder for a moment, breathing deeply, collecting herself before she drew back again to meet his eyes.

“And you?”  He was afraid, that she could see so clearly now, she could see it come alive at her whispered words. He was terrified, overwhelmed with it, finally unable to hold it in any longer.

He cupped her cheek again, his thumb stroking softly.  “That I will have to convince you to fall in love with me again, and I’m not entirely sure how I managed it the first time.” 

Daenerys tentatively mirrored his actions, stroking the bearded cheek beneath her palm, watching as her fingertips stroked across his skin.  “I suspect you won’t need to work too hard in that respect.”

It was true, she mused, matching his watery smile with one of her own.  She was already halfway there.


	5. The Price of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys learns the cost of war and the price of life.

* * *

 

The early morning sun sent soft bands of light streaming through her chambers.

No, that wasn’t right.  Their chambers, in truth.  These rooms were not hers anymore, at least not hers alone.  Now she shared them with the man who lay beside her, the man with sad eyes that were closed in slumber, the reluctant King in the North who had become *her* King, though she remembered it not.

The man who had told her quietly, haltingly, in the darkness of night of a sacrifice she had made for him.  For them.

Viserion was gone.

Drogon had been of wild spirit, free in a way she had always longed to be herself, the boldest of her sons even in those precious few days when he’d been just hatched and as small as his brothers.

Rhaegal had been quiet, watchful, always aware.  He did not lack for courage, but within him dwelt a cunning cautiousness where Drogon had been brash.

But Viserion… 

No one but Daenerys knew of the tender fragility that had always dwelt inside his sweet spirit.  It was the same gentle madness that had lived in her brother, had been the reason she had named him so.  Of her three dragons it was Viserion’s rage she feared the most, sensing the ease with which he might break free of what limited restraint her scaled children were capable of, at least what self-control they had acquired as they had aged.

If something had ever happened to her, it was Viserion that might lead his brothers in burning the world to ashes.

But he lived no more.

Jon Snow had not said much on the subject, and she had not had the inclination to ask, not at the time.  Not as he had held her so gently, had whispered to her that when morning came he knew she might wish to see her dragons, and that he would not tell her such news where prying eyes might see her grief. 

There had been such deep regret in his voice, when he’d told her that this Night King he’d warned of had been the one to fell her son, that his life had been taken by an enemy that they’d fought together.

There had been such loathing in his eyes when he’d admitted that Viserion’s life had been the price to save his own. 

Daenerys had wept, but unlike all those years she had spent with no comfort save herself, now there were strong arms around her, the warmth of him pressed against her.  When she had finally given herself over to the quiet exhaustion that consumed her she was not sure, but while yesterday’s dawn had found her angry at Jon Snow’s intrusion in her bed, this morning she was glad to find him there.

Now she lay silent, eyes tracing the lines of his face, more familiar with each moment.  Such news as the loss of her son might have broken her before, it might have been a crushing blow to the wounded heart within her, a heart that had borne more loss and betrayal than could be withstood.

But she had looked into the faces of her children.  Children of her body, of her blood.  Her dragons had been her only comfort, in another life; a life where she was convinced she would have nothing but them to hold close.  But then, her dragons had only been small enough to hold for a short time, and her arms had been empty once more.

Jon Snow had spoken of Viserion’s loss as though he hated himself for such, blamed himself for it.  But he could not know the immensity of what he had given her instead.  Dragons were wonderful, terrible creatures, her birthright, the last inheritance of her dying house.

But Daenerys was not the last Targaryen anymore.

And in her heart, a balance had been struck, the emptiness inside her so full at what they had made, together, that she could not find it within herself to blame him as he did.

Only death could pay for life.

If presented the choice between the life of her dragon or the three sweet faces she had pressed her cheek against, the lives of the children that she had held in her arms, she knew what she would choose.  She knew without a doubt.

And she could not, *would* not mourn such impossible gifts.  Life had never given freely to the likes of Daenerys Targaryen, there had always been a cost.  She could accept that truth. 

She could accept that she did not remember marrying Jon Snow.  She did not remember fighting by his side in the war he had beseeched her to join her forces to; Daenerys stifled a chuckle as she studied the face of a man she did not remember creating three lives with, his features relaxed in sleep, age only beginning to show itself in a fleck of silver here or there along his bearded jaw.

But her lack of memory would not stop her from taking what was hers. 

Daenerys felt her cheeks heat as she shifted slightly against him, silver strands of hair slipping across the skin of his bare chest as she raised herself up slightly, bracing herself on an elbow as she openly studied him now, uncaring if she woke him.  Perhaps she was not quite ready to take everything that was hers, in regard to him, the dull pounding in her temple reminding her that she still had an injury that required some form of convalescence, but she would not distance herself from him any longer.

It hurt him.

She did not want to hurt Jon Snow.

Her eyes carefully examined the silvered scars that littered the well-muscled chest below her.

No, she mused.  Life had taken much from Jon Snow, just as it had from her.  The man who slept beside her had a long, curved scar over his heart.  She would inflict no further injury, especially not there.

They belonged to each other now, and it didn’t matter if she remembered how it had come to pass.  All that mattered was what she had, right now.

One tentative finger traced the scar over his heart, a stuttering breath and the shifting muscles of his chest alerting her to the fact that he was awake, now, though he did not speak.  Time seemed to move slowly, liquid as it crawled, at least for a few small, precious moments, and she let the tips of her fingers dance over each scar in turn before slowly raising her eyes to his.

The King who shared her bed, the man who shared her throne simply lay still under her touch, blinking sleepily at her, his eyes blearily hopeful as he whispered quietly, “Are you about to order me from your chambers?”

She could hear the real question that lie beneath such jest.  _Do you remember?_

Daenerys bit at her lower lip regretfully, dropping her gaze for a moment and taking a steadying breath.  She returned his stare, finally, knowing she could not give him the answer he hoped for.  But perhaps, she thought, raising an eyebrow slowly, perhaps she could still give him something, some reassurance that though her memories were lost to her, she was not lost to him.

“What comes next?”  She felt no need to hold back the teasing note in her own voice, watching his brow furrow in confusion before he slowly looked down to his chest, where she traced a finger between his pectorals.  His eyes remained locked to the path of her finger until she spoke once more.  “In this game in which I order you from my chambers, Jon Snow.”  She tilted her head to the side, inching closer to him with each word that fell from her lips.  “What comes next?”

She watched with a smirk as Jon Snow’s eyes narrowed, a snort of surprised amusement escaping as she endured his scrutiny.  “You are a very wicked woman.”  The Queen felt her shoulders shake in quiet laughter as he rolled his eyes in mock despair.  “I’m trying very hard to behave myself, you know.”

Daenerys tapped her finger against the tip of his nose, sliding her body against his until their faces were nearly even, her gaze darting between his eyes and lips, his tongue slipping out as she watched to wet his lips as though they were dry.  “That doesn’t answer my question, Jon.”  She leaned closer still, stopping when her mouth was achingly close to his.  “But I must assume that whatever follows must be considered,” she paused, savoring the warm puff of his breath against her lips, “strenuous activity?”

She was pushing him.  Testing him, really, seeing if whatever boundary he’d tried to place between them was immovable, or if he was merely holding back until she invited him in.  It might be unwise; she was not oblivious to that.  But all the reasons that she ought to maintain her own distance seemed to vanish when she was this close to him.  There was something about him that entreated her, that drew her unerringly nearer until he was all that she could see.

Jon Snow smiled then, slow and full of a lazy desire that caught her off guard.  And so it was a complete surprise to her when he flipped her, suddenly and smoothly, their positions reversed before her mind could process what had happened.

Then it was he who hovered above her, fully awake now and eyes dark with growing want, an awareness in his gaze that told her he knew exactly what she was doing, how she was testing his defenses, and it was intoxicating to see his amusement war with his desire for her.  “What follows, Daenerys, depends greatly on how much time we can expect to have to ourselves before an unfortunate interruption.”

The Queen exhaled raggedly, her own need building exponentially at his sureness, his lack of hesitation in how he touched her.  And still he held back, just barely, though she was sure it was slowly driving him mad.  Want was a heated honeyed slide of need down her spine, a wet slickness between her thighs, his body fitted between her bent knees, shift bunched around her hips. 

He stared down at her mutely, his eyes momentarily serious even as he pressed against her, and her instinctual arch against the thick length of him pressed against her core caused his eyes to slam shut, a tortured groan escaping as his eyes shot to the sun streaming through the windows before returning to hers.

“I can promise you, My Queen,” his raspy whisper tickled against the shell of her ear as he leaned ever closer, the weight of his body upon hers welcome and enflaming, her hips circling up and against him once more, “that whatever it is you seek will have to wait.”

Jon Snow pulled back to gauge her reaction, only to release a heavy sigh as she tipped her chin up, her own eyes heavy lidded and limbs heavy with need as she asked, “And why is that?”

He leaned down, finally, gloriously pressing his lips to hers, the contact coaxing a moan from her as his tongue expertly teased against her lips seeking entry, tangling hotly with hers as she writhed underneath him, her arms circling his neck to hold him captive against her.  He drew back slowly, resting his forehead against hers, their noses brushing as he looked at her regretfully.

A knock sounded, abrupt and intrusive, the loud eruption of giggles that followed answering her question more clearly than Jon Snow possibly could have.

“That’s why.”  He sagged against her with a chuckle, bracing his elbows on either side of her and kissing the tip of her nose before rising from the bed, hastily making his way to the privy as he called out for the small, raucous bundles of silver hair and direwolf fur to enter.  He laughed uproariously at her wide eyes before he disappeared into the bathing chambers and leaving her to greet her daughters, surely needing a few moments to compose himself as the two girls and their pups made haste to join her on the bed.  Ghost gave her a doleful, commiserating look from the open doorway and paced over to await Jon Snow’s return, once he’d had time to make himself presentable.

Daenerys would grant him that, certainly, but she was not done with Jon Snow.  Not nearly done at all.

\-----------

“Mama, look!”  It was Aryanna who shrieked a command from the sandy shoreline, Daeron streaking past her with his wolf, a silken kite of brilliant blue trailing above him in the cloudless sky.  In the small girl’s hand was her own kite, this one a fiery red and not yet airborne, but she was persistent in her effort, running as quickly as her bare feet would carry her until she, like her brother, had managed to set her kite to flight.

Daenerys smiled and clapped as the girl beamed, taking up a position near her older brother, who was giving her intense instruction that she seemed to pay minimal attention to, her attention focused more on the direwolf pup rolling around in the sand before her and her parents and sister, who had settled farther up from the tide on furs and blankets.

She looked to her left, where Serena lay sprawled on her stomach, a pencil of charcoal clenched between her fingers tightly as she sketched nebulous shapes onto the parchment she’d brought to the shore, her kite of emerald green tucked securely under one arm as she drew.

“Don’t you want to fly your kite?”  Her daughter looked up, Jon Snow’s serious eyes peering at her from that lovely little face, considering and solemn as she looked from Daenerys to the parchment in front of her.

“Not yet, Mama.”  The girl gave her a tiny, sweet smile before peering back at her drawing, her tongue peeking out between her lips in concentration, such focus surprising Daenerys in a girl so young.  She looked back at Aryanna and Daeron, who appeared to be in a heated battle, each tilting their kite strings to and fro, colorful silk diamonds swinging dangerously close to each other with each pass.

“They’re going to get tangled.”  Jon’s voice was an amused rasp near her ear, and she looked over quickly to see him dip his head towards the pair down the shore, giving her a grin as he rose, jogging easily down the beach to separate the two before they became inextricably entwined and their kites were rendered useless or worse, lost to the sea.

She let her eyes linger on his form, the King she’d wed wearing far fewer layers than she was used to seeing him in.  Except privately, she thought, heat rising in her cheeks.  She found, oddly enough, that the thought alone was enough to make her want him, right then and there.  Daenerys cleared her throat, shoving such thoughts aside for a more appropriate time and place, when she might voice such to Jon Snow himself and see what response she might get.

Serena was humming to herself, a melody Daenerys did not recognize but found pleasing, the Queen shifting closer to watch the child still stretched out beside her, pencil scratching away, focused intensely as she stopped every few moments to smudge here and there with the edge of her finger, creating shadow and depth in a pattern that was undetectable to all but the girl who brought the image to life.

“What are you drawing?” 

The little silver princess was slow to register her mother’s question, her pinky smearing a line along what seemed to be a massive ancient tree, one that look familiar to the Daenerys, the rush of recognition sweeping over her though she had only see the tree alive and whole once, in what could only have been a vision. 

“The boy in the tree, Mama.” 

The girl was so simply sure in her explanation that Daenerys could only nod, humming in agreement as she saw that yes, there in the shadowy branches that were colorless still, leaves taking shape that she knew to be blood red, there was a boy there, perched in the forking limbs of that tree. 

“He’s my friend, you know.”  Daenerys smiled, stroking her fingers through the length of hair down her daughter’s back that was unbraided and unbound, streaks of silver moonlight that shone even in the day, the color exaggerated further against the dark blue of the course linen tunic and leggings the girl wore.

She glanced once more down the shore, laughter bubbling up as she saw Jon and the two children on either side of him struggling to pull the kites down, the strings hopelessly tangled just as Jon had predicted, consternation barely visible at a distance but there all the same as the King looked up and met her eyes.  She clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle her amusement, the sound obviously having carried on the wind to be heard by him as he shook his head slowly at her before returning his attention to the kite strings in his hands.

“They’ll be coming back, just watch.”  Daenerys let out another giggle at her daughter’s wry tone, shaking her head just as Jon had as Serena carefully gathered her pencils and stored her drawing safely in a leather pouch containing yet more parchment.  “Papa will need help untangling that mess.”  The girl drew herself into a seated position now, leaning against Daenerys before looking up mournfully into her mother’s face.  “He’s awful with two things, Mama: strings and braids.”

The Queen fought a smile, keeping her face serious as she wrapped an arm around her daughter’s slight form, pressing a kiss to the crown of the girl’s head and whispering, “I’m sure you’re right.  Thank you for the reminder, sweet girl.”  She closed her eyes, smelling the sweet scent of the girl’s hair, taking a moment to merely be, to feel the reality of her child at her side.

Soft fingers crept up along her forehead, and she could feel Serena rise to her knees, the caress of her fingertips halting just before the slowly diminishing knot still present at her temple.

“May I check your wound, Mama?”  Daenerys opened her eyes at the question, nodding as the child inhaled excitedly, gently probing as Samwell had done the day prior.  “I could be a Maester if I wished, Mama.  Samwell says so.”  There was her tongue, tiny and pink, peeking out from between her lips as she performed an impressively thorough mapping of the bruised, swollen flesh.  Daenerys had been thankful to find that it was not nearly so painful or swollen this morning, but the skin itself was blooming with an ugly rainbow of bruising.

“I’m sure you could.”  Serena smiled at the assurance, completing her gentle exam and wrapping small arms around Daenerys’s neck.  The girl drew back, warm smile still in place, until motion at the edges of the Queen’s vision turned both their heads, the trio and their tangled kites returning just as the girl had predicted.

Daeron and Aryanna plopped down resignedly, at the very edges of the blankets heaped atop the sand, contenting themselves with building castles in the sand while Serena slowly pulled her kite free and stood.  Jon looked at her with raised brows, astonishment clear on his features as his fingers blindly plucked at the tangled strings in his lap.

“*Now* you mean to fly your kite?”  Serena smiled at her father’s surprised tone, one cheek dimpling as she gathered the loose strings in one hand and held the silky diamond of cloth in the other.

“Of course.  *Now* I can fly it in peace, Papa!”  The girl turned, skipping merrily down the sand, and the scowl on both Daeron and Aryanna’s faces had Daenerys collapsing back on the blankets in a fit of giggles.  She was relieved to see, when she met their gazes again, that her amusement had brought about begrudging smiles on both their faces.

Jon Snow, meanwhile, just say watching her, smiling softly, reaching a hand forward to help pull her back to a seated position as she sighed, catching her breath.  He held her eyes with his own for heavy, silent moments, something unspoken passing between them, foreign and familiar all at once, a feeling of being known in a way she never had.

And then, with a smirk, he lay the entire tangled mess in her lap, gesturing with a free hand as she drew in an outraged breath.

“Your turn.”

\---------------

Jon Snow was gamely helping her unknot the last of the kite string, the children having long since abandoned that notion for exploring along the rocky shoreline, running back to the blankets every now and again to deposit a colorful shell or piece of debris that had washed ashore.

She scanned the shoreline as they played, remembering clearly how it had felt to land here, to lay her hand in this same sand, longing for a sense of home, a sense of belonging, both hopes dashed as the craggy shore and ancestral keep had been just as empty and lonely as all else had been.

No longer, she thought, pulling the blue kite free and looping the string securely around it as the King did the same with Aryanna’s red kite.  He took Daeron’s from her hands, securing both fabric covered frames with a decently heavy stone before seating himself beside her again.

She was not alone, now.  Dragonstone was a true home, now, and she had a family, a true family of flesh and blood and bone.  She nudged the man beside her with her shoulder, adopting a put-upon expression as he turned his face towards her.

“That’s awfully unfair you know, making me do all the work.”  She could tell he was not taking her aggrieved tone seriously, obviously knowing her well enough to discern when she jested and when she did not.

Daenerys was almost delighted to see him play along immediately, dipping his chin in deference.  “My apologies.”  She saw the corners of his mouth twitch, a beat passing before he continued.  “I’m sure you will devise some manner of atonement for such a slight.”  He spoke with a stilted formality that belied the amusement in his eyes, eyes that were more enchanting with each passing study, eyes that looked at her as no other ever had.  Jon Snow’s eyes told her much, if she had the notion to search.

“I’m sure I can come up with *some* way for you to make it up to me.”  She lay on her side, slowly, her elbow bracing her head as she looked at him, her smile knowing as he mirrored her pose and chuckled lowly.

“Of that I have no doubt.”  His eyes shot down the shoreline, where all three children were gathered around a piece of driftwood, no doubt eyeing the stubborn barnacles that clung to the debris, before staring at her intently and leaning close.  “Rest assured, my answer is yes, whatever your suggestion may be.” 

He waggled his brows at her suggestively, finally letting a smile play along his lips, and she was so overcome with laughter that it made her helplessly limp, her body falling back onto the blankets and tears gathering in her eyes, the entirety of this reality she found herself in so absurd and wonderful that she could not contain it.

Daenerys wiped under her eyes with a shaking fingertip, her face tilting to find him still propped up on an elbow beside her, watching her fondly.  She reached a hand up to trace alone his cheek bone, his whiskered jaw making her palm tingle.

“If this is all just a dream, Jon Snow, I think I would rather not wake up.”  He did not speak in response, his smile turning a bit bittersweet and he brought his face level with hers, kissing her cheek chastely, the move a stark contrast to the bold hand that slid it’s way along her hip.

Both were startled apart by the scream, high-pitched and pain, each rising rapidly and running down the shoreline to where the children were gathered.

Aryanna sat clutching her foot, tears already streaking down reddened cheeks, the direwolf pups surround the driftwood and growling angrily as Daenerys and Jon approached.  Serena stepped back, peering anxiously between her sister and the driftwood and the King picked up the crying girl.

“What happened, little lamb?”  Jon’s voice was low and soothing, and Daenerys approached his side, her fingers gently feeling along the girl’s tender toes, her eyes finding only the smallest showing any sign of injury.

“Something pinched me!”  Aryanna took great, gulping breaths between her sobs, and Daenerys looked back to the large piece of driftwood, where Daeron crouched, rising with something cupped gently in his hands.

He came close, Aryanna shying away and further into her father’s arms as her brother approached, unsurprisingly revealing a small blue crab held captive in his palms.  Daenerys was not alarmed, at least not that the boy had captured the creature.  What alarmed her, suddenly and thoroughly, was that her son’s eyes, so much like her own, were now a milky white.  She glanced at Jon, who only watched the boy intently, until suddenly Daeron was drawing a sharp breath, his eyes returning to their normal hue.

Daenerys stood speechless, all eyes on her son now, none surprised save but her.  Aryanna was intrigued, she surmised, the girl having halted her cries to watch her brother as closely as her father now did, her head cocked to the side as Daeron spoke.

“He’s very sorry, sister.”  His voice was truly sincere, his focus switching between the small animal in his hands and his sister.  “You scared him.  He thought you were a giant come to crush him.”

Aryanna looked with new eyes at the small crab.  She sniffled, drawing her sleeve under her nose quickly.  “I’m not a giant.”

Daeron laughed quietly.  “I know that, but look how small he is.”  He slowly walked down to the shore, black curls free and dancing in the breeze, placing the clawed creature in the water and watching it scuttle into the tide.  “You’re a giant to him though.”

Jon whispered quietly to the girl in his arms, and Daenerys watched as the girl nodded and allowed her father to place her back upon the sand.  “Watch your step, now.”

Aryanna smiled, the gap in her teeth all-the-more endearing as the girl took the hand Serena offered, skipping off to examine the collection of shells they had acquired over the course of the day.  Daeron remained, though, and Daenerys walked over to join him with a nod to Jon, who turned to follow the girls.

He had walked into the surf, just barely, the sun high in the sky and heating their cheeks as mother and son stood, letting foamy waves brush across their ankles.

“There’s something out there.”  Daenerys looked down to find that his eyes were once again a milky white, but he did not flinch or draw away when she slid one trembling arm around him, aware now that he had a gift, but unsure as to what, precisely, this gift might be.

There was magic in her blood, after all.  Magic in Jon Snow’s blood as well.  It only stood to reason that her children might be as special as she was, as their father was.

“Out where, my sweet?”  She stroked a finger along his cheek but he did not turn to look at her, white gaze trained far off into the distance, where only the open sea lived.

“In the deep waters.  It sleeps.”  The boy sighed, finally looking at her with her own eyes, something old and wise in the depths of his as he finished.  “But it will not sleep forever.”

She felt a chill chase down her spine, the lad’s sureness making her cold despite the heat of the day, and she responded as best she could.  “Then we must be ready, yes?”

She was Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons.  She feared no monster or man.  She had a family to protect.

And protect them she would, she thought, gently pulling her son with her as she walked back towards Jon and her daughters. 

Any who thought to take her family from her would pay a steep price, and she would collect that debt with Fire and Blood.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the good news is that (in the Lights household) all the kids are back to school, which means writing doesn't JUST have to occur at night when NorthernLights cannot keep her eyes open!
> 
> That being said, we hope to have Chapter 6 up by Friday, and THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF OUR COLD EMOTIONLESS HEARTS for all your enthusiasm and encouragement in this story. 
> 
> Keep in mind, as well, that this tale will encompass THREE stories, so buckle up, our ride is just beginning!


	6. A Dance of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chat with Tyrion. The Smut that was Promised, and another revelation :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY!
> 
> But good news - NorthernLights had her sono and mother and bambino (Groot, as the TeenLights are calling it) are in great shape! It's a celebration bitches!
> 
> LET'S FUCKING PARTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY
> 
> p.s. we love you all, let's climb in that glass case of emotion together

 

* * *

 

Tyrion had come to her, alone, as the sun had set.

That he was concerned for her was clear, slight worry lines creasing the skin between his brows, his eyes searching her carefully as she stood at the ledge she favored, the one that overlooked the sea, that allowed her the best view of her scaled children as they canted through the skies.

They were returning, this very evening.  Jon had warned her to expect them today, cryptically mentioning that Drogon and Rhaegal had been off hunting, almost presenting the situation as one the dragons had been tasked with.  It made guests to Dragonstone nervous, he’d said, and so for those who sought their first audience with the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms it was not an uncommon courtesy that the Crown extended.

It made sense, of course, but she remained openly confused as to *how* precisely her winged sons had been given such a specific assignment in the first place.  Jon had smiled at her, eyes mysteriously amused, before parting ways with her after dinner, promising only that he would explain once their earthbound offspring had been settled in for the evening.

And so Tyrion had come, and had kept silently company with her for several quiet moments before piercing the veil of quiet peace that surrounded them, a companionship borne of trust and, from the signs of age on his own face, years of service to the Queen he had sworn allegiance to in Meereen all those many years ago.

“You must have questions, Your Grace.”

Daenerys snatched her gaze from the crashing waves, the scene awash in a burning orange glow, glancing at her Hand with a slight smile.  “I have no doubt you could provide many answers, Lord Hand.”  Her fingers traced abstract shapes along the stone ledge, considering.  Many things had crossed her mind, since she’d woken up in a life so far removed from the one she had known.  But there was one question that burned through her like wildfire, one area in which she wondered if what she had now, with Jon Snow, was predicated on selfishness rather than perhaps something she had earned, something that had been fate’s gift to her for all the years of suffering and pain.

“Jon Snow’s war.”  She was silent for a beat, watching Tyrion’s head tilt curiously, his expression encouraging her to continue.  “We joined his fight, I have gathered that much.”  Tyrion nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “Was it the right decision, Tyrion?  Did I do the right thing for my people?  Or was I only thinking of myself?”

She could see such a situation existing.  There was something exceedingly soft inside her where once she had been iron, something that beat with an unfamiliar tenderness once she had opened the door to it.  Once she had opened that long-locked, chained door to her heart and considered that perhaps Jon Snow was like no one else she had ever known.

She hungered for him, and though she could not remember she had to assume it must have been so for some time.  She had to wonder if it had blinded her long ago, or if somehow she had been strong enough to put aside the feelings that churned within her where Jon Snow was concerned.

Tyrion sighed softly, looking down with a wry grin before leaning against the ledge her fingers danced upon nervously, his eyes searching the sea as hers did.  He spoke, his gaze focused in the distance, his voice warm and wistful, something very much like fondness flavoring his words.

“I have always been of a rather…cynical nature.”  He nodded to himself, and she could do naught but stare at him, watching silently as the years melted away in an instant, as if the man before her was the same exiled Lannister who had sought her out in Meereen.  “I do not, as a rule, lose myself to flights of fancy, or romantic notions.”  Now he looked at her, just for a heartbeat before glancing away.  “And I would be the first to counsel that love is the greatest mistake amongst those who rule.  It makes those with such incalculable power so very weak.”  Tyrion clucked his tongue several times, as though he was scolding, though she did not know if he directed this at her or himself.

“But you have, since I have known you, disproven a great many things I thought I knew, Your Grace.”  Tyrion shook his head, his eyes now settling on hers, her breath catching in her chest at his words.  “And though I was bitterly against such a notion at first, I can readily admit that I was wrong.”

Daenerys scoffed in surprise.  “Wrong about what, precisely?” 

Tyrion gave a chuckle.  “You needn’t look so surprised.  Even the wisest man is wrong once in a lifetime.”  The small man shrugged, his voice laden with a mocking seriousness.  “Sometimes perhaps even twice.”  He was staring up at her, firmly, almost gravely.  “I thought it was too dangerous, this thing,” he waved his hand slightly in the air, “that had grown between the two of you.  I thought it would blind you to your true purpose; I thought it would cost one of your, or both of you, your lives.”  Tyrion scratched absently at his lightly bearded jaw.  “I was wrong.”  Something in his gaze softened now, something bittersweet but thankful.  “If you had not followed your heart, so many years ago, I strongly suspect we would all be dead.”

The Queen exhaled slowly, her hands relaxing as Tyrion spoke, relief coursing through her that perhaps the hope that had bloomed within her was not misplaced, that even one such as she would be allowed happiness in her lifetime.  “I suppose I have you to thank for that, don’t I, Lord Hand?”  Tyrion looked at her curiously, prompting further elaboration.  “If it had not been for your word in his favor, I doubt I would have requested the King in the North travel to Dragonstone at all.”

Now Tyrion did laugh.  “Oh, in that case, you most certainly do.  An act for which I will most graciously accept your undying gratitude.” 

Daenerys cast her eyes to the side, taking in Tyrion’s amusement, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly and tossing her hands up in exasperation.  “Is drinking all of my wine not suitable recompense for such wise and selfless acts?”

Tyrion pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly in silent laughter before reaching inside his cloak and withdrawing a flask, shaking it at her exaggeratedly.  “It’s certainly a start.”

\----------

The winds buffeted Daenerys as she strode forward, and she found herself grateful for both the intricate braids she obviously still favored and the warmth of the furred, structured coat she wore, the structure and style quite similar to what she had adopted when she’d first arrived back on Westerosi shores.

There was a chill in the air but it was slight, the wind carrying not just a cooling breeze but the audible proof of what she had felt tingling within her veins; a dragon screeched loudly in the distance, her lips stretching into a smile at the sound.  It was Drogon, that much she knew.

It had been an undercurrent all day, something easily buried by the reality of her other children surrounding her, children born of flesh and blood instead of fire and smoke, and while she treasured each moment spent in the presence of her most impossible dreams there was something settling and reassuring for her in the comfort of her dragons.

There was something equally as comforting, if not unexpected, in the man who stood waiting for her on the cliffside, that heavy Northern cloak that she had not seen since she’d awoken to find herself in bed beside him finally making a reappearance, the fabric rippling and tossing about as she approached.  She could not place what it was, exactly, only knowing that there was something about him that beckoned her, called her closer.

That sentiment remained true as she pulled even beside him, moonlight giving her an unencumbered view of the brilliant smile on his face as he took notice of her arrival, his arm emerging as though the motion were automatic from his cloak to grasp at her hand, clasping it within his own and bringing her fingers to his lips in a gentle kiss.

“Look.”  He whispered the words, his eyes flashing excitedly to hers before looking out to sea, where she could just make out the shapes of her sons as they drew nearer. 

She smiled in return, watching wonder as he tracked the flight of her enormous sons, her breath escaping harshly as they finally circled overhead, realizing they were larger still than they had been when she’d last seen them.  They came thundering down, crashing to the ground in a rumbling landing that had her grasping at Jon Snow’s hand for a moment as she steadied herself.

“There are a few other things I need to tell you, Dany.  Things you know that you do not remember.”  Jon paused for a moment, warm eyes watching as Drogon and Rhaegal twisted against and along each other in a fashion that was new to her before both dragons turned their attention to the pair before them.

Her curiosity piqued, she raised a brow, releasing his hand to draw nearer to Drogon as he crept closer to her in turn, her outstretched hand just brushing against his snout as she asked, “Such as?”

But as her hand made full contact with Drogon’s rough, scaled hide, something washed over her, a realization as sure and clear as the midday sun, a warm rush that brought wetness to her eyes and a strange palpitation to the heart beating in her chest.  “He feels like…”

“He’s not a *he* anymore.  Strictly speaking.”  Jon Snow walked calmly closer, unfazed at Drogon’s proximity, and she watched with wide eyes as the black snout widened with the dragon’s intake of breath, a rumbling purr creeping out before she could find the words to reply.

“How…,” she spluttered her words, confusion and amusement and amazement all warring for dominance, “how can that be?”

The husband she did not remember marrying snorted in merriment, looking between Drogon and Rhaegal, who had perched himself regally at a distance, watching them all.  “I’m no maester, but Sam believes it’s because they’re a mated pair.  That they chose to be.  It happened after the girls were born.”

“And Rhaegal?”  She tipped her head towards her other son, her *only* scaled son it seemed.  As if he recognized his name he crept forward now, green scales glinting in the full light of the moon overhead, but to her surprise it was not his mother he approached but Jon Snow, and she felt panic grow within her as his great head drew close to the King’s back.

That panic was soon overcome with complete shock when, as she watched, Jon grinned at her, turning to sweep an unfettered hand across the bridge of Rhaegal’s snout, the dragon’s jaw resting on the grass below as he shut his eyes and purred contentedly at Jon Snow’s touch.

“Still a boy, thankfully.”  The King chuckled, turning to meet her gaze, noticing the shock that had overtaken her and completely unfazed by it, as though he had suspected it.  “I doubt you’d let me hear the end of it if my dragon had been the one laying clutches of eggs all over the island.”

“Eggs?”  Daenerys breathed the word out faintly, almost feeling dizzy at the King’s nod, at the affirmation that not only had she managed, with the man before her, to produce Targaryen heirs at last, but her dragons had done so as well.  But then another thought struck her, and her voice had gained in strength as she spoke again.  “*Your* dragon?”

Jon Snow was silent, his hands never ceasing their constant brush against Rhaegal.  The green dragon’s golden eyes opened, man and beast staring deeply at each other for so long that Daenerys was reluctant to press him, something palpable passing between the two in those quiet moments.  Then suddenly, the moment was broken, as Jon clapped his palm against that scaly hide, bidding him farewell with a soft “Off you go, lad.”

Drogon, who she’d been absently stroking, absorbing the soothing heat of that rough hide beneath her palm, drew back also.  As she watched the pair crawled along the cliff before diving off the side, gliding farther down the shoreline together as they disappeared from sight.

“How can he be yours, Jon?  You are a Stark, are you not?”  Suspicion rose unbidden within her, wondering if this, after all, was the fault that lay within this man.  Had he come to her with ulterior motives after all?  Because none could have touched her dragons so without the blood of the dragon in their veins.  Had he lied about himself to win her over?  Was he some lost Targaryen bastard who’d been lucky enough to find his way to her, only to take a son for his own?  Had he deceived her all along?

Jon studied her, his jaw tensing as if he sensed her confusion and suspicion, and he slowly unfastened his heavy furs, drawing them off and spreading them on the ground.  As she watched through narrowed eyes he sat, holding a hand up to her.  “Sit.  Please, Dany.”

He’d called her that twice tonight, a slip that had not occurred since the first day she’d awoken to find herself in a life she did not recall, and while there was the ghost of Viserys in that name she had to admit it sounded so very different falling from his lips.  Coming from Jon Snow it was an endearment instead of a command, soft where the name had been sharp when her brother had spoken it.  She liked it, giving a resigned breath as she took his hand, seating herself beside him as they faced the sea before them.

“Rhaegal is not mine as if I own him.  A dragon is not a slave.”  He slipped her a knowing grin at her gaping recognition of those words, her words, though he spoke the common tongue and not Valyrian.  But he is mine in the sense that we are bonded, just as you and Drogon are.  I am his rider.”

Daenerys could do nothing but stare mutely, this revelation somehow greater than any thus far, an image flashing to mind unconsciously that filled her with a sense of completeness she had not thought possible: flying, together, the two of them.  She had never dreamed to imagine she might share the skies with another and yet at every impossible idea Jon Snow had proven such notions to be quite possible.

Perhaps, she thought, her eyes searching his face closely, Jon Snow *made* those things possible.

“How?”

He sighed at her words, his head dipping for a beat before meeting her eyes again.  “Do you know, I find myself very curious as to how you’ll respond to this.  The last time we learned what I’m going to tell you we were in the middle of war.  I’m not quite sure what you’ll think about it now.”  He almost sounded nervous, something that was shockingly endearing, and she found herself aching to comfort him, squeezing his hand and pressing herself a little closer into his side until he brought his arm around her, holding her close.

“When I first came here, Tyrion addressed me by a name I had grown very used to, a title I never wanted but I carried with me everywhere I went: the Bastard of Winterfell.”  She felt her mouth tighten involuntarily; she knew, of course, that the reason he was called Jon Snow instead of Jon Stark was because he was a Northern bastard, but she herself had never seen any validity in such a label, especially after Tyrion had explained to her that for bastards in Westeros their last name was little more than a brand of shame.

The man beside her seemed to notice her reaction, looking at her with a warmth that made her instantly wish they’d gone indoors for this discussion.  To their chambers, perhaps, if he was going to persist in looking at her so.

“You’d already come North with me, to fight for my people when I learned it wasn’t true.”  Her confusion must have been pain on her face, his eyes sweeping over her furrowed brow, lingering longer than they should on her pursed lips.  “I never was a bastard.”  Jon sighed then, breaking his stare to look up at the moon as he continued.  “And I never was Ned Stark’s son.”

Daenerys had assumed that she couldn’t be surprised by anything more at this point, but here she was climbing higher and higher into an unknown land of shock and bewilderment, her mouth agape in a silent gasp. She shook her head slightly, trying to find the words to ask what she needed to, but then warm, rough fingers came to rest tenderly against her lips, as if to communicate that she need not ask at all, that he would answer her unspoken queries without prompting.

And he stared at her, finally, eyes of slate gray now nearly black in the moonlit night, his fingers sliding down to cup her jaw tenderly before brushing her shoulder and twisting into the end of her silver braid.  “Ned Stark was not my father.”  He trailed off for a moment, inhaling swiftly as if to brace himself.  “He was my Uncle.  And he raised me as his bastard to save my life, Dany.  He knew that if any learned the truth of my parents I would surely die.”

Something crept into her mind, a memory, a story told by Ser Barristan Selmy.  Another Stark, unknown to her, but known to another Targaryen, that she knew.  And she wondered, before he spoke once more, if it could possibly be true, this idea that now formed in her mind.  Another impossibility, because the odds of such thing being true, and of them finding each other were so very slim.

Impossible, yes, and he seemed to struggle with continuing, now Jon being the one who fought to find the words he wished to say.

But she knew.  Deep down, she knew what he would say.  Because once, her brother had loved a Stark.  Once, the brother she’d never known, who had died before she’d ever been born, had dared to follow his heart, if Ser Barristan was to be believed.  Her brother who had been good at killing, yes, but hated to take a life.  Her brother who’d died with a Stark girl’s name on his lips, who’d loved her no matter the cost.

Rhaegar was nothing but a ghost to her, a man who existed only in the memories of others, until now.  And watching as Jon’s jaw worked, as his eyes darted, his mind clearly racing to say what he must to her now, she felt overwhelmed with something she had been unwilling to truly name before now.  Because now she understood what he was, underneath his Northern face and icy exterior.  She understood what had called to her despite their rather gruff first encounter.

He was a dragon, just like she was.

He was a Stark, and a Targaryen, and she felt as though she was lit from within now, with a fire that burned fiercely, a blaze that started in her heart and spread quickly, consuming her defenses and her hesitations.

“You are Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son, aren’t you?”

Jon Snow looked surprised for the first time all evening, but whether it was at her question or her calm, gentle tone she was not certain.  He nodded, slowly.  “Not just their son, Dany.”  His eyes darted away briefly.  “He married my mother, in Dorne, before he died.”  Jon sighed sadly.  “Before she died birthing me.”

“You are a dragon.  You are a prince.”

Again, he nodded, watching warily as she rose to her knees, leaning back and supporting himself on hands braced just behind him as she crept nearer.  Closer still she drew, until the tip of her nose brushed his.  “I used to ask myself, Jon, whether I would be alone forever.”  Her whispered words danced across his lips, a shudder passing through him that she could feel as she straddled his outstretched legs, feeling decidedly predatory as she looked down at him now.  “I used to wonder who would ever dare to love a dragon.”

His eyes, which had been squarely focused on her mouth, rolled up to meet hers slowly, a smile that was equal parts lust and devotion forming as he stared up at her.  “Only another dragon would ever dare to attempt such a feat.”  Her skirts had bunched around her thighs as she settled herself fully upon him, the thin trousers she wore beneath not nearly enough to disguise the press of his arousal against her, thick and hard and sending a persistent thrill through her as she gave a lusty sigh in response.

“You are far braver than I originally thought, it would seem.”  Daenerys drew back only slightly, far enough to study his face, to search for the barest hint of the dragon within him.  It was not to be found within his skin, pale and Northern, nor that dark hair, though streaks of silver had begun to appear.  It was not until she directed her attention back to his eyes that she saw it, burning brightly within that steely gaze; there was a beast within him, and her own roared in return.

“Very brave.  Some might say exceedingly so.”  He smiled wolfishly at her, his hands sliding down to grasp both her hips, tilting her against him exquisitely as he leaned in quickly to nip at the skin of her neck.

“Some might say this?”  She tried to seem disaffected but her words were little more than ragged exhalations now, and Daenerys gave him a thoroughly wicked looked, eyes smoldering as she gazed down at him hungrily, circling her hips firmly against him, making it clear what she wanted.  A part of her had worried he would shy away, that he would try for some sort of noble stupidity rather than take what she freely offered.

But no, she could see the fire within, so clear to her now and so like her own that her only concern was that she had missed it before now.  He was a dragon, and he would dance with her.  She was sure of that.  He chuckled, gray eyes never leaving hers as he loosed the fastenings on her coat, watching her hotly as one finger traced the neckline of the gown beneath.  “Aye, some might.  Others might call it a willful recklessness.”  Those steely eyes grew molten as the tip of his finger dipped between the line of her cleavage, caressing the tender skin just under the fabric, still watching as though he toyed with her.  She fought her own shudder, giving a firm slide of her core against him, marveling at how slick she had become at naught but his touch.

“And what do I call it, Jon Snow?”  She leaned in, finally giving in to the urge to taste him, her tongue tracing a fiery line up the column of his neck before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the skin just below his ear.  The King beneath her groaned, his hands grasping her firmly and surely as his own lips found her ear, his teeth sneaking out again to tug at her earlobe before he whispered, “You usually just ask me why I’m so set on getting myself killed, and that I’d better hope I don’t, or you’ll find a way to break apart all Seven Hells just to tell me how cross you are with me.”

It started slowly, her laugh.  First a silent, slow shake of her shoulders, growing into a slight giggle that bloomed into something beautiful, a full-throated laugh that she might not have thought herself capable of, her arms sliding around his neck and holding him close against her; Her desire for him momentarily forgotten as his arms circled around her in turn, his answering merriment quieter but still there.

“Do you love me, Jon?  Truly?”  She did not look at him, whispering the words into the skin of his throat, but he heard her, his voice thick with emotion as he answered.

“More than anything.”

Daenerys swallowed hard.  There was nothing more to consider.  Jon was her husband.  He loved her.  And she did not need to remember how he won her heart to know that it belonged to him all the same.

He was hers, and she was his, and that was simply all there was to it.

“Then take me inside and show me.”

\-------------

Daenerys found herself breathlessly tossed upon the bed in their chambers, laughing as she pushed herself up on her elbows and watched Jon shut the door, his own amusement still evident but muddled with a heavy haze of desire that merely fueled her own.  He advanced on her slowly, one dark brow climbing as he set his furs aside, his fingers unlacing the dark, embossed leathers he wore over a lighter tunic and trousers.

Of all the things that surprised her, that had made her thoroughly reexamine that first impression of him, it was this inordinately playful side of him that he seemed to release whenever she’d found herself alone with him.  Now hardly seemed to be the time to put a damper on such behavior, and she found herself all the more intrigued by him as he smiled at her wickedly.  Daenerys rose to stand before him, her own fingers mimicking his actions, quickly shedding her overcoat and tossing it haphazardly across his furs.

“Are you sure, Dany?  I can wait, you know.  ‘Til you remember.”  Both hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs sweeping softly along her cheekbones as his mood shifted suddenly, desire banked as his visage grew serious. 

She believed him.  He would wait if she wasn’t ready, no matter how much he wanted her, no matter that she was his wife and had been for some time.  He would wait if she wished it.

The Queen rose up onto her toes, pressing her lips to his gently, so softly that her eyes drifted shut at the sweetness of the contact, a light moan escaping as she licked along the seam of his lips, savoring the taste of him before pulling back slightly. 

“Help me remember.”  She rose up once more, sealing their mouths together, her tongue teasing against his as he groaned raggedly, his arms banding around her as he finally let go.  His restraint was gone, at last, his mouth devouring hers for endless moments before he seemed to force himself back, teeth and tongue and lips dragging down her jaw and neck, little nips against her skin that he soothed with his tongue as he progressed.

She was panting then, almost dizzy with the flare of want within her, stronger than she ever recalled with any other, her fingers scrabbling across the thick leather across his chest to pull at the fastenings on his shoulders.  Jon was laughing against her, rough chuckles that teased at her skin as his lips quested lower still, his tongue tracing light patterns across the exposed cleavage there that made her sway in his grip.

“Always impatient.”  He tsked at her good naturedly as he straightened, loosening his hold on Daenerys to pull the offending layers off, his leathers and tunic both dropping to the floor, his hands flying to the waist of his trousers until she stopped him with a command.

“Don’t move, Jon Snow.”  Daenerys let one hand creep behind her own neck, untying the binding of her gown so that it hung loose about her shoulders, her eyes drinking in the exposed planes of skin before her.  He was magnificent, she thought, hard and muscled and battle-scarred, and he held still obligingly as she trailed her fingertips slowly from his shoulder to his navel, the pads of her fingers memorizing every dip and rise, every patch of raised skin that reminded her that this was a warrior before her.  This was a fighter.  This man was a dragon.

Jon Snow was her King.

She risked a look up to see he did not watch her face, but her hands, his lip caught between his teeth, nostrils flaring as his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly, her fingers finally ceasing their downward motion as she teased the skin just above the rough fabric of his trousers. 

“Dany.”  Her name was a grinding whisper between his lips, his lips twitching as she looked up at him.  “It’s not very nice to tease, you know.”  His eyes danced, though, growing wider as her palm crept down to stroke along the hard length of his arousal, then narrowing at her as she smiled saucily.

“I’m merely trying to remember, of course.  I would never tease.”  Daenerys leaned forward, her lips now following the path her fingers had forged, smiling against heated skin as she felt his hands snag themselves in the lacings of her dress, shrugging her shoulders to free herself from the material even as her tongue licked it’s way across one pectoral muscle and then the other.

“Of course not.”  The King’s tone was dry, his hands sliding down her arms to draw her gown from her body, the silks finally pooling on the floor at her feet, leaving them both bare save for trousers and boots.  Warm hands returned to her shoulders, drawing her up his body until she was panting into his parted lips.

“My turn.”  He was practically growling now, more wolf than man, his hand cupping her jaw, thumbs below the bone pressing now, tilting her chin up, forcing her gaze into his.

And then, just as he had that morning, he was in complete control, maneuvering her smoothly back onto the furs atop the bed, her breasts aching for his touch as his mouth latched onto her neck, one palm coming to cup and caress each mound in turn as he braced himself above her with his free arm.  She was twisting against him, writhing, helpless with such swiftness that it beggared belief.  Everything faded, narrowing to the absolute heat of his mouth on her skin, the heated slide of his palm against her, nimble fingers pinching and rolling first one hard, dusky nipple then the other in turn.

That he could reduce her to such mindlessness in such a short span of time did not surprise her anymore, however.  Her mind had lost the memories of his body against her, but her own body remembered.  Her skin cried out in ecstasy with each stroke of his hand, her back arching sharply as his hand ventured to her trousers, fingers twisting the clasp free expertly then roughly shoving the material down her hips, her knees bending together as he swept the garment free of her ankles, leaving her bare and breathless before him.

“Perhaps this will jog your memory, Your Grace.”  She had no chance to respond, her words lost in a high-pitched keening as he teased her breasts with his tongue and lips, tracing wet, abstract patterns between them before capturing each hard peak with between his soft lips, short beard abrading the tender skin deliciously as he worried her nipples gently with his teeth.

It was perfect.  It was exactly right, the pressure sharp enough to tug pleasurably, not gentle but not rough, his fingers venturing between her slickened thighs, wetter than she’d ever been but not embarrassed in the least.  He knew what he was doing to her, she realized.  Jon Snow, *this* Jon Snow, knew precisely how to touch her.  He knew how to make her moan, she realized.  She wondered if he could make her scream.

“Show me what I have forgotten, Your Grace.”  It was a request and a command, rolled together in a voice low and heavy with want, lust and something that felt like love stirring now beneath her skin, and her hips rose instinctively as his fingers parted her folds, sliding easily against her core, seeking and circling her clit with such sureness that she cried out raggedly.  “Jon!”  She called his name loudly, both hands grasping his head and trying to pull him up, wanting to taste him against her lips as he teased her so artfully.

But Jon denied her, shaking his head and slowly drawing one leg over his shoulder, retreating lower instead of climbing higher, and her breath caught as she saw his face, barely outlined in the dim firelight, every exhalation falling from his mouth and teasing against her skin as he kissed his way past her navel, his tongue darting out to tease and lighting every nerve ending ablaze until her hovered just above her core.  “Better start here, then.” 

She could almost feel his rough whisper against the slick folds just below his lips, but then his tongue was there, licking in long, slow strokes, tasting every fold and curve, dipping inside her only to retreat, his movements only amplified as she began to circle her hips frantically against him, needing more, needing *something*.  Once more, he knew, she realized, her mouth dry as she gasped raggedly, raising herself slightly to watch him as he worked her, no hesitation in his movement as suddenly his eyes shot to hers, dark as pitch in the barely lit room, and she could have sworn she saw him smirk; She felt the twist of his lips against her wet core as suddenly he sealed his open mouth over the sensitive nub at her apex, his tongue lashing it rapidly as his mouth suckled against her, and it was too much, release crashing over her as the waves outside did.  It was relentless, and she was unable to do little more but ride out each overwhelming pulse of heat and muscle, her womb clenching powerfully, over and over, desperate to be full of him even as her limbs relaxed with the pleasure he had given her.

He waited, his tongue gentling against her, his hands grasping her hips as they rose and fell beneath his lips, each shudder within her easing the ache in her core but fueling the hunger inside.  She lay back, sweat beading on her skin, struggling to catch her breath as her eyes closed.  “I think,” she breathed out, words catching in her throat, “I may need more reminding.”

Daenerys cracked an eye open to see him standing beside the bed now, toeing off his boots and shedding the last of his clothing, silent and hungry as he let his gaze travel over her satisfied form.

“You usually do.”  Jon climbed slowly up her body, muscled arms bracing above each of her shoulders as he stared down at her, his focus on her parted, swollen lips until he focused on her eyes.  She drew her knees up, her feet flat on the bed as he settled between her thighs, his length hard and throbbing as it nestled against the wet folds at her core, pleasure already building again, slowly burning up her spine as she ground herself against him, her only want in that moment to feel him buried deep inside her.

He held back, still, she noticed, just resting against her for a moment, his forehead falling against hers as he closed his eyes, and she saw his jaw clench slightly, could feel how he tensed as she locked her hands behind his neck, slowly raising one foot to trace along his hip and the muscled ass she’d admired the prior day. 

Jon’s eyes shot open, so full of love it made her want to weep, so full of want she wished for nothing more than to be wrapped around him forever, thinking wistfully that she needed nothing more than this, really.  This, with him, with what they had created together…this was all she wanted.  And still he seemed to wait, his eyes searching hers for a long, quiet moment.

She could do no more, then, but lean up, capturing his lips with hers before drawing his tongue into her mouth, suckling it suggestively, until he was thrusting his hips against her as his tongue plunged into her mouth.  Daenerys drew back, lips smacking against his, waiting until his eyes met hers again before she whispered, “Fuck me, Jon.”

The Queen wondered if such crassness had offended him, relief and a pitched, tightening coil of desire sharpening within her as he smiled. 

“As my Queen commands.” 

She could feel him reach between them, his hips drawing back enough to allow him to position himself at her entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against her before one swift, hard thrust brought him crashing blissfully into her, so achingly full of him that she found herself pushed up along the bed, finding in short order that Jon Snow took the commands of his Queen quite literally. 

He was not gentle, each snap of his hips against hers, each strong push inside her making her cry out in pleasure, the ache inside building as he clenched his teeth above her, his eyes locked onto her as one particular thrust hit something deep inside, something that made dig her nails into those strong shoulders, bracing herself below him as drove into her relentlessly.  It was as though he had been made for her, his body fitted by the Gods themselves to fill her, to surround her.  She was twisting her hips up and against him now, each sharp thrust prompting an answering arch of her back and grinding stroke up and into him.  She was growing closer, she knew, the dam of pleasure within her filling, swelling until near bursting, a sweet violence in the way he took her, claiming her with biting kisses against her neck and collar bone.

Suddenly he was grasping one leg, drawing the slender limb up to his shoulder as he drove into her harder, faster, the change in angle causing him to strike that spot within her so expertly that she burned, in that moment.  She closed her eyes against the rush of sharp release, every muscle tensing as he took her farther and deeper, his cock plunging into her without hesitation, each smooth stroke making stars explode behind her lids.

Daenerys felt that sudden, swift clench of release, felt her core rippling around the thick length of him, a broken cry falling from her lips, loud and sharp, begging him not to stop, his answering moan muffled by her skin as he rutted against her, now mindless himself, pleasure claiming him as it had her, feeling the hot flood of his seed as he shuddered against her.  His motion slowed, a few lazy thrusts before he stilled against her, their skin damp with sweat, with each other, her arms clinging tightly to him despite the heat between them.

“I will not be parted from you, Jon.”  He drew back, his features slack and relaxed now, his smile tender as he gazed blearily down at her.  “Not now, not ever.”

She swore it to herself, not releasing him even as he softened slightly within her, keeping her limbs wrapped around him as sleep crept in to claim them both.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Northern Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the Night King has long been defeated, Daenerys learns that monsters still roam the realms of men.
> 
> ***WARNING - There is nothing worse in this chapter than frankly ANYTHING we have seen on Game of Thrones, but rape and murder are dealt with. Consider yourself warned.***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word on the delay of this story:
> 
> For those who weren't aware, I had a miscarriage a few weeks ago, and needed a little time to come back to this story in particular, with it's focus on children and Daenerys and her adjustment in part to being a mother. But here we are, together again, doing feels shit, because we just keep rolling no matter what life hands us. So thank you, on both of our behalfs, for your patience and understanding and continued enjoyment of our little tale.
> 
> We appreciate you!

* * *

 

The fire burned low in the brazier beside her bed when Daenerys woke, blinking sleepily and stretching her limbs gently, the sky still lit only by the moon.

Fingers trailed gently up and down her spine, the furs having slipped away from her body as she slept, her cheeked pillowed upon a scar-strewn chest belonging to the man who had come to her a stubborn rebellious Northern and become her husband without her recollection.

She turned her cheek slightly, her skin damp where it pressed along his hot skin, pressing a kiss to the skin there before tipping her chin up.  Jon lay quietly, watching her with dark, gentle eyes, a soft smile gracing his lips when he saw she was awake.

“Tell me something.”  She kept her voice at a whisper, hesitant to break the sanctuary of the respite she had found in his arms, the pleasant satisfaction that stretched and lengthened each moment, wishing idly that she could simply stay here, forever, for once not plagued by the emptiness that had haunted her existence ‘til now.

“Like what?”  Jon shifted slightly, lifting his arm so that she could twist her body, her forearms crossing and laying flat, her chin coming to rest on the table they created so that she could gaze upon him comfortably.

“Anything.  Something I’ve forgotten.”  She let one finger trace small circles on his skin, thrilling as he grinned down at her, alert despite the late hour.  He was so very beautiful when he smiled like that, no trace of the worry and burden that had plagued his features when she had first seen him.

“Hmmmmm.”  He drew out the sound, the low pitch of it vibrating against her arms.  “Do you remember why they call you the Savior of the Realm?”

“No.”  She wrinkled her forehead, but gave him a smirk despite her confusion.  “But it sounds quite impressive.”

Jon reached a hand up, stroking his fingers along the crown of her head before tracing down the side of her cheek with a reverence that surprised her.  “Because you defeated the Night King.  You and Drogon.”  He swallowed heavily, giving a slow exhale before continuing.  “You saved them.”

Daenerys sat up, uncaring that she bared herself to his gaze, but to his credit, and perhaps due to years of seeing her in such state he gave no reaction but a flicker of his gaze downward to her breasts before meeting her eyes again.  “I saved them?”

Her husband nodded, his hand curling to cup her cheek, banked fire under his skin just as surely as it dwelt under hers.  “I thought then that it was the bravest thing I’d ever seen.”  His lips curved upwards playfully.  “But you do have this strange habit of proving me wrong.  Because then, not long after, you brought our son into the world, and I thought it was not possible to be prouder of you than I was then.”

Breath caught in her chest, that bittersweet pain that seemed to fall upon her like a cloak every second she had cast eyes upon these children she could not remember birthing, her eyes welling as he whispered such sweet enchantments upon her that it was though he cast a spell.  She was caught by him, consumed by the history he was giving her, their history, remade in his voice, retold from his memories.

“He was so beautiful, and I was so afraid.”  He gave a shudder then, and she crawled closer, her face hovering over his, as though she would catch his breath between her lips and take him in, unable to get as close as she wished.  “I had never thought it possible, had given up on the idea of children of my own when I was barely a man myself.  And now here was this tiny boy, crying and squalling and red-faced, and I’d never felt such terror.”

Daenerys swallowed thickly, her bare chest pressed tightly against his now, his arms crossing behind her to hold her loosely against his chest, their noses nearly brushing.  “Why?”

“Because I had so much to lose, in that very moment.  I’d never had so much to lose before, never had so much that I loved, that was *mine*.”  His left hand stayed curled behind her neck, his right twisting a curl of silver hair around his finger, and he was silent for a moment, watching it untwist from the digit, finally meeting her eyes once more as he intoned, “Until you, I had been nothing more than a sad bastard that even death did not want.  Do you know what you told me?”

She shook her head, her teeth tugging gently at her lower lip, her own eyes dropping to his chest, a map of old hurts and ancient wounds.  His fingers were there, tipping her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

“You told me that if there were Gods then surely our debt to them was paid.  That if our past had been full of such misery and pain, that surely now they meant to give us joy.”  He laughed now, watery, his eyes bright with moisture, his breath puffing against her lips.  “And if they thought they were going to take your family from you then you would wage war on the Gods themselves to keep what was ours.”  Jon leaned in, his mouth sealing with hers, a clinging kiss that he seemed reluctant to pull away from.  But he did, nuzzling his nose against hers, both hands now framing her face, staring at her intently.  “I wasn’t afraid anymore.  Because I knew you spoke truly.”  Jon chuckled, whispering, “And even the Gods would be foolish to take from the Mother of Dragons.”

Tears fell now, and she could not stop them, could not speak, instead pressing her face against his neck and embracing him tightly, her hands locking together around his neck as he settled back once more against the pillows, breathing deeply into her hair.  “If you remember nothing else, Dany, remember this: no man ever born has loved a woman as much as I love you.”  She could feel his hot breath stirring the hair against her neck, his lips finding her ear.  “And any who seek to take what is mine will pay, in Fire and Blood.”

Daenerys stilled, tears drying, sniffling against his now-wet neck before slowly sitting back.  Hearing those words from his lips, her words, now their words, stirred something in her chest.  Something that beat with fiery wings and sharp claws, that screamed that he was hers, and she was his.  She was not alone, not anymore.  And it did not matter what had come before, because she had what she longed for all those years ago, across the Narrow Sea.  Jon Snow had given her a home, and it was within him, within the heart that beat below her fingers as they splayed across his chest.

She pushed herself up, her thighs spreading across his hips, straddling him, her eyebrow raising as she felt him, thick and swollen with need, flush against her.  Her fingers danced along his chest, tracing each line of muscle, each ridged scar as he thrust up gently against her.

“What?”  His eyed widened innocently, even as his hands fell to dig into the curves of her hips, dragging her slowly against his hardness where it split her wet folds, spreading the slickness of her want for him along his length.

“Are you sure you can manage again, my King?”  She circled her hips against him now, bearing down as he groaned at the pressure, his eyes darkening in the dim light, his face painted in dancing shadows.  “For you have already had me several times this night.”  His body answered her question well before his lips could, the pulsing thickness of him trapped against her core making clear his intention to have her once more before their bodies surrendered to sleep.

He sat up, his hand at the small of her back to pulling her with him, holding her flush against him as his back hit soundly against the wooden headboard.  Sweat began to bead on her skin, the heat of him stoking the fire within her, desire flaring and coiling low within her, her walls clenching with the ache to have him inside her again.  He did not pull her down, the tip of him just grazing along her opening, nudging at her entrance before teasing up and against the sensitive bud above as he writhed beneath her, teasing her.

“I am a dragon, Daenerys.”  He spoke truly, fire raging in the depths of those iron eyes, but it was a wolfish smile and flashing of teeth that he gave her as he brought his free hand up to toy with hardened pink nipple before palming the full weight of her breast in his hand.  “And when it comes to you, sweet Dany, I am a greedy man indeed.” 

With that he spoke no more, his head dropping to capture the other rosy peak between full lips, his tongue tracing tight circles before his teeth began to worry gently, alternating between the two with a rough sweetness that made her head fall back, waves of hair cascading down her back, her mouth falling open in an audible gasp. 

“Jon.”  His name was a faint moan falling from her lips, one hand raising to wrap around his neck, to anchor herself upright and against him as he indulged in such sweet torture, his mouth and hands seeming to war with each other against every slope and curve of her chest, his tongue laving flatly over her other nipple now before sucking hard, releasing her with a pop of his lips against her skin before he locked eyes with her, blowing a puff of air against the wet flesh.

He smiled at her, slowly, wickedly, and she rose on her knees, fingers at his neck now tangling in raven curls as she reached down and grasped him in her fist, a long, slow gliding stroke of his cock eased by her own slickness coating him.  Daenerys thrilled, endlessly pleased, when his eyes rolled back, his eyelids slamming shut and his head thumping back against the wood with a groan.

“Perhaps I shall do the work this time.”  She trailed her fingers up his length, just ghosting the digits against his skin, delighting in the whimper that issued forth as his eyes crawled back open.  Daenerys leaned forward, letting her damp forehead rest against his, tendrils of hair sticking to her neck as she gently moved the rounded, flushed head of his cock against her eager clit, teasing them both now as she gasped against his lips.

Jon merely held tight to her hips, letting her lead, his eyes focused between there bodies, panting with anticipation as she teased herself with his hardness, letting him slide against her drenched center until he was slippery with her wetness, his ragged moans the only indication that he wished for more, to be inside her.  “If that would please the Queen.”  He bit the words out, muscles tensing in his body as he fought to hold back, to let her do as she wished to him, and something in that careful restraint made her love him all the more in that instant.

“*You* please me.”  She swallowed his whimper, sealing her mouth against his as she took him inside her, slowly, agonizingly, sinking down inch by inch until her hips were flush against his.  Daenerys released his mouth, looking down to where they joined, savoring how he filled her so thoroughly, her walls stretching and squeezing at the invasion.  “Very much.”  Her teeth captured his lower lip, tugging roughly as she began to ride him, an unhurried pace that allowed her to memorize every sensation, the way he fit her so perfectly, the head of his cock kissing her womb with each downstroke onto him, impaling herself on him with a roll of her hips that was familiar, the echoes of lessons learned long ago.

And each time he slid into her it felt as it was a homecoming, as though the emptiness that had been her constant companion was banished by the thrust of his hips, the way he began to chant her name and curse, her rhythm unbroken as he began to fall to pieces beneath her, because of her, eyes capturing hers before he leaned in to capture her nipple once more, tugging and suckling and watching her with a heated gaze that made her tremble.  He was testing her, enticing her, his fingers twisting and pinching roughly at her other breast before giving her what she gave him as she began to ride him with more force, fucking him with relentless and increasing frenzy, their hips slapping as she felt her release begin to bloom within her, coiling in the center of her, her eyes closing as the force of it began to grow with a tingling pressure.

She was agonizingly close, dancing on the precipice of a great wave, and it was then that he released the rosy peak that he had been devoting his wanton attention to, his hands falling to her sides before splaying along her hips again, a guttural voice asking, demanding, “Are you ready?”  She felt herself tightening around him, heat blazing hot and burning through her veins, pleasure chasing up her spine as she nodded, rendered mute as she felt the force of what she’d built between them about to engulf her.

He angled her hips roughly, now thrusting up and into her with abandon, his hands anchoring her in place as the head of his cock now struck something so fully within her that she gave an unbidden, unfettered cry, gasping helplessly as release gripped her fully now, uncontrollable ripples of climax now took the rhythm from her, her body shuddering and jerking in his grasp, nothing existing but the sharp, agonizing slide of him within her heated depths.

She moaned his name on a broken sob as his mouth fell hot against her neck, his hand fisting in her hair to expose the line of her throat, his teeth biting sharp at the hollow there, his tongue soothing even as he claimed her, his hips slowing and then freezing, a guttural groan teasing at her skin as her clenching walls milked his seed from him, flooding her with heat as her head settled heavily against his shoulder.  They remained locked together, a few flutters rippling through her, answered by a gentle thrust in turn.

Daenerys panted, willing her heart to slow, for her breathing to calm, her mouth dry and eyes heavy as she slowly raised her head to look at him, her beautiful King, this secret dragon wearing a wolf’s skin.

He was quiet for a beat, simply staring at her, then he softly began to chuckle, sliding himself down until his head hit the pillows, beckoning her to come lie beside him with a pat of his hand on the bedding.

The Queen smiled, mindless of the sweat that coated her skin, unseating him from her slowly before crawling to lie boneless beside him on her stomach.  She felt sated and breathless, a lightness in her chest that was unfamiliar but welcome, her cheek craving the cool silk of the pillow, her eyes only on him.

Jon rolled onto his side, pulling the covers on them only to the waste, mindful of the flush that heated her cheeks as well as his own, before letting his hand wander up her spine, sliding and soothing as she finally closed her eyes.

She realized what it was, as sleep crept in to claim her.  What she felt, right now, was so peculiar it was hard to name, but the thought flitted into her mind nonetheless, leaving her almost as breathless as her activities of moments ago.

She felt free.

\----------------

Dawn came harshly, with a pounding fist upon their chamber doors that shocked them both awake with a start, a hasty untangling of limbs and scrambling for clothes all they had time for before Missandei finally burst in, eyes averted, no longer able to wait to be beckoned.

“Come quickly.”  She looked between the King and Queen, an anxious worry painting her features that caused a sharp knot of worry to form in Daenerys’s chest, exploding into something far worse at her friend’s next words.

“It’s the princess.”

Jon was hot on her heels as she practically chased Missandei through the stone halls, her ears detecting what her eyes could not as piercing screams met her ears, and her panic only intensified when she burst into the room to see Serena, huddled under her bedclothes, her face red and her mouth stretch in terror, shrieking and crying, her sister crouched beside her and sobbing almost as loudly.

Aryanna streaked straight to Jon at the sight of both parents, the King crouching low and catching her as she flung herself at him, silver braids flying and bouncing against her back as her father held her close, whispering soothingly, his eyes full of fear as he stared at Serena, whose cries only increased in volume as she realized that Daenerys and Jon were there, finally.

“Mama!”  Daenerys felt a fist clutch tight at her lungs, forcing the air from her as she raced towards the bed, acting only on instinct now as she pulled the hysterical girl to her, gratified to hear her daughter’s cries slowly ease as she wrapped her arms around Serena’s slight form.  Hot tears fell against her neck, the girl’s small shoulders shaking as her fear turned to sorrow in her mother’s arms.  “Mama.”  The word was chanted over and over, and she rocked the girl gently, her hand creeping up to cradle the girl’s head.

“What is it?  What’s wrong?”  The small head shook, her sobs quieting but still present, and no one spoke until a small voice pierced the air.

“She saw something.”  It was Daeron, standing in the open doorway, his mouth a grim, thin line as he took in his parents and sisters.

Jon knelt, releasing Aryanna to stand before him, a hand tussling her hair before he looked to his son.  “What do you mean, saw something?”  There was an edge of suspicion in his voice that suggested his worry ran deeper than something idly witnessed, and her son’s next words only confirmed it, Jon’s shoulders sagging when Daeron answered.

“She’s got the greensight, Papa.”  Daeron looked at Daenerys, who still held a clinging, crying Serena in her arms.  “She didn’t want anyone to know.”  The Queen ran a trembling hand along the girl’s head, caressing her soft cheek and turning her to face her brother and father.

“Is that true?”  Jon was pale, every word he spoke heavy with trepidation, and he came to sit beside Daenerys on the small bed, his gaze locked with his daughter’s.

“Yes.”  Serena’s small voice shook, tears still streaming as she looked between her parents.  “I’m sorry, I tried not to, I didn’t want to see.”  Her chin trembled.  “I didn’t want to see it, it is too terrible.”  The girl could not contain herself any longer, pressing her face into Daenerys’s shoulder.  “It’s too terrible mama, make it stop.”  A small whimper, and then she resumed her quiet sobbing.  “Please, mama, make it stop.”

Daenerys looked at Jon helplessly.  “Greensight?”

Jon’s eyes closed for a moment at her question, his gaze haunted when it met with hers again.  “It means she can see things that have happened.  Or will happen.”  He sighed, his hand reaching out to smooth down the girl’s back.  “It’s not an uncommon gift for those with the blood of the First Men.”

Aryanna had crossed the room, holding tight to her brother’s hand, watching the spectacle unfold.  Finally, she spoke, in a low voice, her question meant for her sister.  “What did you see?”

The air seemed to grow still, silence almost deafening, until Serena spoke, her voice quivering with a heavy sadness that seemed to press in on her from every side, her eyes staring out the window when she answered.  “He hurt her.  He did bad things to her.  Very bad things.  Then he killed her.”  Fat tears left wet trails down her cheeks but she spoke on, as if she meant to purge it from her mind by speaking it aloud.  “Mara.  He killed her and left her in the caves.”

Jon seemed to tremble as well, horror blooming in his eyes as Serena spoke, recognition flaring at the name that was unfamiliar to Daenerys.  “Who did, little lamb?  Who did this to Mara?”  There was a roughness in his voice that she first thought was grief, but one look at his tensed jaw and clenching fist told her another story.  He was angry.  He was furious and desperately trying to contain in it front of the children.

“The man who came to court, the Lord with the triple spirals on his arms.”  Daenerys looked to Jon, the sigil not one that she had memorized on her journey across the Narrow Sea, a dull pounding starting in her temple, the knotted lump still remaining though it had diminished in size considerably.

“Massey.”  Jon’s teeth were clenched, the words grinding out angrily.  A matching growl startled the Queen, her head whipping around to the doorway to see Ghost pacing the hall, tail swishing menacingly, fangs bared as though he might tear out the throat of any who dared enter.  The three pups sat obediently just inside, having gathered quietly, all sign of playfulness vanished as they watched the older wolf carefully.

“Ghost.”  Red eyes turned to the King as he called to the direwolf, and Missandei stepped aside to allow the beast to pace across the floor to Serena’s bed.  Jon let out a heavy breath, staring deeply into Ghost’s eyes, a hand coming to stroke the wolf’s great head.  “I want you to fetch Sam and search the caves.  No one touches the girl if you find her.  No one.  Understand?”

Daenerys should have been past surprises such as what she witnessed, with all that she had seen in the past few days, but she was still startled to see such keen intelligence in those ruby eyes, intrigued that the wolf understood the King, something passing between the two unseen but keenly felt.  Finally Ghost dipped his head, nuzzling under Jon’s chin, a sad whine his parting words to his master as he turned tail and left, the wolf pups trailing after him almost solemnly.

“Missandei.”  Daenerys clung to her weeping girl as she watched Jon address her closest friend, desperate to soothe the lass, Aryanna now creeping over to climb abed beside her, a small hand joining the Queen’s in sweeping down her sister’s back.  “Find Greyworm.  I want our *guest*,” his words were coated in a thick, poisonous venom,” brought to the throne room within the hour.”

Her friend swept a finger under her eyes, sniffling gently and smoothing her hands down her skirts, her own sadness clear in her downcast eyes and quiet reply.  “Of course, Your Grace.”  In a sweep of charcoal skirts she was gone, pulling the door closed behind her, leaving the family she had so newly come to know alone.

“Daeron.”  The lad looked up, dark curls tumbling across his forehead and down his neck as he came to stand before his father, where the King still sat on the small bed of his sister.  “I want you to find Davos and Tyrion as quickly as you can.  Tell them what’s happened.  Can you do that?” 

Daeron swallowed, small chin quivering, but he steeled himself, drawing in a breath, whispering, “Yes, Papa.”  His pale face was a study in agony, eyes so like her own shining with unshed tears, but he did not let them fall, looking solemnly at his father, looking so like his father that had she not still held his sister Daenerys would have fallen to her knees before him, taken him into her arms to let him grieve.

But she understood that now was not the time for such.  And this boy would be King one day, heir to all that she and Jon were trying to build, together.  For now, he must be strong, he must bear the weight of the crown he would one day wear.  Grief would come later.

Jon nodded at the boy, unable to resist the urge that had overtaken her, pulling the boy to him and running a hand through the lad’s unruly curls, his strong arms locking around the boy, letting Daeron’s head fall against his shoulder.  For a moment they remained, frozen in time, father embracing son, but then it was broken, the boy backing away slowly and nodding at his father, dipping his chin to his mother before leaving the room quietly.

Daenerys watched him go, letting out a trembling breath and holding tighter to the girl in her arms, whose head was still pressed against her neck, until her father’s voice reached her.  “Serena.”

The girl’s small silver head raised, her hair tousled about her face, braids hanging limply and tangled.  “You want to know what the bad man did, don’t you Papa?”  Serena sat up straighter, tears starting to dry, her face now grim and serious and flushed red as a rose.

Jon closed his eyes, his jaw tensing and chin dipping to his chest, such grief in that grey gaze when he opened them that she knew the girl had guessed correctly.  “I’m sorry, little lamb.  I wish you never had to speak of it again.  I wish I could pluck it from your mind like a weed so you would never have to think on it again.”  His voice dropped to a whisper, his chin trembling just as Daeron’s had now, head shaking slightly before he spoke again.  “But if we are going to seek justice for what he did to Mara, you must tell us what you saw.”

And so she did, in a low whisper that Jon and Daenerys had to lean closer to hear, bile rising in the Queen’s throat as the girl told the sad, awful tale, that this guest in their home had lured Mara to the cave, had forced himself on her violently, had snapped her neck when she’d fought him back.  She spoke with a child’s understanding, innocence coloring her understanding of what she’d seen, but it was enough.

It was enough to make Daenerys begin to shake, with rage, with horror, enough to set fire to her blood.

It was enough to make Jon bury his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, breathing heavily as anger filled him as surely as it did his Queen, to strike his knee with a clenched fist as the girl’s voice trailed off.

“What will we do, Papa?”  It was Aryanna’s whisper that finally broke the quiet.

Jon looked at Daenerys, eyes bright with burning fury.  “It is not vengeance I wish, Dany, only justice.  Are we agreed?”

She was not sure what she had expected, perhaps that they would have to weigh the risk of punishing a Lord of Westeros for a crime against a Dothraki.  She knew what was said of the people who had sailed the Narrow Sea for her.  They were *her* people.

But as she studied this man before her she saw no hesitation, only a quiet rage that made his hand clench and his body tense with tightly held anger, barely restrained.

“A great injustice has been committed.”  She willed her own restraint forward, fighting back the righteous anger that ran hot in her own veins.  “We shall answer it with justice.”

\------------

Missandei returned to Daenerys in her chambers, pulling a heavy gown forward and presenting it to the Queen for her inspection, whispering all the while as to what she could expect in the hours that will follow.

“A tribunal has been gathered, Your Grace.”  Daenerys held her arms out, listening intently as black sleeves were drawn up, surprised to see the weight she felt was chain.  The entire dress was covered in it, small chainmail, cleverly designed, so tightly pieced that she surmised an arrow could not pierce the interlocking links.  Shot through were deep bands of scarlet, in stark contrast to the darkness of the surrounding fabric.

“All visiting heads of their respective Houses will hear the evidence, and a vote will be cast.”  Missandei set to work with the fastenings that ran down Dany’s spine, her explanation providing what little solace could be had under such trying circumstances.  “Greyworm will vote, as well as Qhono.  And then, the Crown will speak, and if found guilty, you and the King shall pass the sentence.”

“And what is the penalty for such a crime?”  Daenerys looked down, feeling as though she were Visenya reborn, arming herself for battle.  And perhaps she was, she thought, her stomach twisting as she remembered her daughter’s words, at the monstrous act that had been committed against a girl Jon had spoken of as if she were family.

Mara, whose Dothraki father had fought beside Jon in the Great War, who had died with honor, whose mother had fallen in the aftermath.  Mara, who had only had fourteen years to her name, who had lived with their household since the tender age of two.  Mara, who had an eye for horses, who loved nothing more than working in the stables, who could break any unruly mount within days.

Mara, who was only a few years old than her son, who had loved to braid her girl’s silver hair, who had loved Daenerys as though she were her own mother.

Jon had whispered these things to her gently, once the pair had left the girls’ chambers, as they’d headed down to the beach to find that Sam and Ghost had located the girl’s broken body just inside the entrance to the Dragonglass caves.

Daenerys had wept when the Dosh Khaleen had gathered, their wails of anguish only fueling her own thirst for repayment of what had been taken from her, her despair only sharpened in that she could not remember the girl at all.

“For the crime of murder, the penalty is death.”  Missandei’s voice was hard, brittle with her own anger.  “For the crime of rape,” Her friend’s hands tugged sharply at the ties at the Queen’s wrist, her golden eyes rising to meet Daenerys’s, “against a young girl?  A girl most loved by the Crown?  Death.  That is what he deserves, nothing less.”  Missandei spat the words out, turning her head in disgust, taking Dany’s hand to lead her to the looking glass.

She stood, staring at herself, at the Queen she had become.  A Targaryen Queen, dreaming of a new world, finding herself facing the same monsters she always had.  Missandei gave her hand a squeeze, their eyes meeting as the woman beside her managed a small, tight smile before releasing her grasp and crossing to the hearth.  The slim woman leaned up, choosing a silver lacquered box, small in size, and walking slowly back.

“Your crown, Daenerys Stormborn.”  Missandei gave her a real smile this time, watery and sad.  “It is time that you should see how it looks upon your head, this crown you have earned.”

And slim brown hands pulled back the lid, the silver circlet gleaming and inlaid with rubies.  It was not garish or over large, tasteful in its’ spare elegance, and Daenerys leaned down so that Missandei might lay it upon her head.

But there was no joy in her heart this day, not even in the fulfillment of a wish long hoped for, only the dull throb at her temple and a sickness in her stomach at what was to come.  “Perhaps I have not earned it at all, Missandei.”  She gazed at herself solemnly, still taken aback inside at the sight she caught each time she saw her reflection, this older version of herself that she had forgotten.  “Not while such monsters still walk amongst us.”

\--------------

Jon was waiting for her at the great doors that led to the Throne Room, surrounded by the children, their faces drawn and grim as she approached.  The girls broke away from their father, running to her, and despite her sorrow she could not deny the thrill that ran through her, wondering if she would grow accustomed to the sight of her children, wondering if the Daenerys who remembered the events of the past twelve years took such for granted.

She would not, she swore to herself.  Life was a precious thing, and these lives were gifts.  Gifts from whatever Gods might exist, gifts from the man who stood watching, his features relaxing and gentling as he watched her smile down at the two little girls, their hair now matching in intricate braids that she recognized as decidedly Dothraki in style.  Someone, she saw, had sewn little bells in their hair, their black gowns hugging their slim forms and broken only by scarlet sashes wound around their waists.

Daeron remained at his father’s side, his spitting image save for his violet eyes.  He stood straight, his face stern, and Daenerys saw that he had a sword fastened to his waist just as Jon did, each of them wearing heavy black cloaks with a shock of fur at the neck.  And, just as the King wore, her son had dressed in dark leathers, the three-headed sigil that was so familiar to her embossed across his chest, the direwolf’s head howling from within.  He’d even bound his hair back as Jon did, curls held tightly back at his neck.

But he was not a man yet, and she saw him hastily sniff and swipe at his nose, Jon looking down at the sound and clapping a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Are we ready?”

“Yes, Papa.”  Daeron looked on the verge of tears, and finally Daenerys could stand it no longer, extricating her legs from the twin grasp of her daughters’ arms and crossing to this boy who was her first living son.  She knelt, mindless to the state of her gown, the metal of the chain dress clinking delicately against the stone as she wrapped her arms around him, holding him until he finally relaxed against her. 

“It’s alright to be sad, to mourn for your friend.”  She drew back slightly, looking up into the boys face, watching a single tear track down.  “Nothing we may do will bring her back.”  Daeron’s gaze dropped to her chin, nodding as his chin trembled.  “But this will not go unanswered.  He will pay for what he has done, I promise you.”

Daeron let out a shaking breath, clearing his throat and nodding tightly, anger blending with the sorrow now to dry his tears.  “I know.”

She rose, shaking out her skirts, looking to Jon who was watching his son with careful sadness.  He looked up slowly to meet her eyes, reaching the hand that was not still on Daeron’s shoulder to take hers, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, understanding plain on his face.

He looked to the girls now, their eyes dry for the time being, their hands clasped tightly between them.  “Mama does not remember, so we must show her how we enter, yes?”

Aryanna nodded, pulling Serena behind her to stand at the doors, waiting until Daeron came to stand behind the pair, the order apparently familiar to everyone but Daenerys.  “We go first, Mama, then Daeron, then you and Papa.  Then there’s lots of names.”

Jon snorted, the mood lightening a bit at the girl’s put-upon tone.  “Not to worry, I told Tyrion to make sure we go with the short version.”  He pulled at her hand, tucking it into his arm, nodding to the Dothraki guards on either side of the door.  “Unless you want to wait for a quarter hour while he runs through your mother’s list of titles.”

A retort lay on her tongue, but she saw the way the girls giggled, and even Daeron cracked a smile, choosing instead to roll her eyes and nudge Jon’s shoulder with hers.  “I think your Papa is just jealous.”  She curled her lips in a private smile, leaning in closely to his side, as much for her own comfort as for discretion, to whisper, “I’ll have you know I earned those titles, Jon Snow.”  She narrowed her eyes when he only smiled indulgently, kisses her knuckles once more before turning his head to face the opening doors, to face the court that had gathered before them.

“I know, Dany.  I know.”

\------------

Daenerys sat, still as stone upon the carved throne in the Great Hall of Dragonstone, Jon standing by her side, his hand grasping the pommel of his sword in a white-knuckled grip, his face devoid of all emotion save for a bland distaste that had been present since Lord Massey had been brought before them.

Daeron stood to his left, shifting slightly on his feet, matching his father’s stance exactly, his jaw jutting forward mulishly as he stared daggers into the balding, shift-eyed man who stood before the throne, his sisters glaring intently from their position on Dany’s right.

She had been worried that it would be too much for them to bear, their ages to tender to deal with such atrocities head on, but if she was a dragon then so were these children of her flesh.  Sadness had deserted them, replaced by hard, set jaws and furious eyes.  They were beautiful, she thought, her thoughts a welcome distraction as Samwell laid out the case to the assembled Lords and Ladies seated on long, narrow benches near the stone walls.

She recognized some of their sigils, if not their faces, but when she had entered with her family she had glimpsed fondness there, humble nods and bows as she and Jon had taken their places upon the dias.  Such gentle fealty had given way to stony silence when Lord Massey had been brought in, an insincere pleasantness offered from the man until he realized exactly why he’d come before the Crown.

Samwell finished, plainly detailing what Lord Massey had done, what he had perpetrated upon Mara, whose body had been taken by the Dosh Khaleen to their encampment.  They prepared her for a funeral pyre, and the thought made her lip curl in poorly disguised disgust that was mirrored on the faces of Tyrion and Davos as they turned to look at the accused Lord before them.

“You have heard the case against you, my Lord.”  Tyrion sounded angrier than she could recall ever hearing, the small man striding over the stand before Lord Massey.  “Have you any case to make for yourself in the face of the evidence against you?”

Daenerys had thought the man might beg, plead for mercy, but she was glad when he did not.  It pleased her to see the vengeful scowl on his face.  It gladdened her when he spat upon the stone floor, the floor her ancestors had laid, mightier men and woman than this man could ever dream of being.

He did not apologize at all, and while it only seemed to enflame the others gathered, while it made Jon straighten, his grip tightening ever further on his sword, she felt a peace sweep over her. 

“You expect me to apologize?”  The man laughed cruelly.  “For taking what I want?  From a savage?  I am the Lord of Stonedance!”

Voices raised, the din almost rising to deafening, the Dothraki guards surrounding the man looking upon him with murder in their eyes, arahks a breath away from being unsheathed.

“Enough!”  her voiced carried across the room, bouncing off the cold stone walls.  She smiled coldly at Lord Massey, who gaped at her in shock.  “How do you find Lord Massey?”  Daenerys directed her question to the gallery, having enough of his vile words, ready to deliver a verdict, to rid the world of this monstrous man.

Now Jon stepped forward, knowing more than just sigils, calling on each Lord or Lady by name.

“Lady Mormont of Bear Island?”  Daenerys gave a start, watching as a girl barely in her twenties rose, snarling out, “Guilty!” in a loud, clear voice.  She nodded to the King and Queen and seated herself, glaring mutinously at the shifty-eyed man who stared at the assemblage with concern beginning to bloom on his face.

“Lord Glover of Deepwood Motte?”  And older man rose, the sigil of a fist upon his chest, his voice grizzled and weary.  “Guilty!”  His eyes were heavy with sadness as he sat once more.

“Tormund of the Free Folk?”  A massive man, almost taller in repose than the others had been while standing rose, a mane of fiery hair floating around his head, hate in his eyes as he stared down at Lord Massey, who gulped and stood silently.  “Guilty!”

“Lady Brienne of Tarth?”  A woman stood now, almost as tall as the one called Tormund, her hair a burnished gold and her eyes a startling sapphire.  She wore the armor of a knight, a sword strapped to her waist, her eyes burning with disgust as she called out her decision.  “Guilty!”

“Greyworm of the Unsullied?”  Missandei’s lover had not been seated, standing behind the nobles as he watched the proceedings with stoic silence, but he did not hesitate in answering Jon’s call.  “Guilty!”

“Qhono?”  Jon turned to the side of the dias, where the Dothraki man stood, flanked by two stone-faced women clad in deerskin, their dark hair bound back and braided.

“Guilty!”  Qhono answered in the common tongue, but switched to Dothraki when he spoke again, and Daenerys found herself floored once more as Jon seemed to understand him exactly.  _“I want the pale man for myself.  I will have his life.”_

Jon stepped over, the pair staring at each other intently, his Northern voice caressing each foreign word he spoke as he answered.  _“His life is mine to take, that is our law.”_ Jon dipped his head, considering, then looked back at Qhono’s frowning face.  _“You will stand at my right, a place of honor.  He will look into your eyes as he dies.”_

This seemed to satisfy the man, a familiar blood lust gleaming in his eyes that Daenerys felt pounding through her with every beat of her heart.

Tyrion looked to her now, approaching the throne, his steps heavy and his voice carefully controlled.  “And how does the Crown find?”

“Guilty.”  Daenerys rose, walking slowly down the steps, feeling Jon step to her side.  She had eyes only for the man before her, his face falling as he finally realized that he would pay dearly for what he had done.  “You have violated the sanctity of my home.  You have caused my children much distress.  That girl was their friend.”  The man’s chest began to rise and fall quickly, his eyes darting around the room as thought he sought any who might speak for him.  “But I will give you a choice, my Lord.”

“A choice?”  Hope flared in the man’s eyes, an answering snarl forming on her lips as she answered his pleading question.

“Oh yes.”  She looked to Jon now, who gave her a nod of assent, knowing what she intended before she spoke it, and she let herself marvel in the unfamiliar notion of being known so perfectly well before she turned her face back to Lord Massey.

“A choice you did not give Mara.  The crown sentences you to death for your crimes.”  The man began to tremble but she continued on, his growing terror a welcome balm to the pain that swelled within her at what this lost had cost her children, the loss of Serena’s innocence a heavy price to pay for one man’s rage and lust.  “Will it be flame, or steel, my Lord?”

The man shook on his feet, his eyes looking between Jon and Daenerys, before he muttered out a guttural response, drawing himself up as tall as he could, trying for bravery and failing.  “I’ll take the steel.”

Her eyes fell on Jon, the constant heat at her side, and he looked at the shaken Lord before turning to Qhono, the silence in the Great Hall allowing all present to hear his reply.

“Fetch the block.”

\-----------

In the end Lord Massey did not march bravely toward his fate, instead being dragged screaming and cursing by several Dothraki who took very little care indeed as they marched him to the cliffside, the wind whipping and buffeting them soundly and snatching the man’s cries from him until he was brought to a halt before Jon.

“If you have anything to say for yourself, do so now.”  Jon stared down at the man as he was forced to kneeling.  Qhono stood to Jon’s right, just as the King and promised, his face a mask of rage, his hands clenched into tight fists as he watched silently.

The man began to cry, blubbering and begging, his words intelligible, until the King had heard enough.  Daenerys held tightly to Daeron’s smaller hand, listening as he whispered to her, both girls nestled against her skirts as they witnessed the spectacle.

“This is the Old Way, Mama.  This is what is done in the North.  Papa says that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.”  Daeron swallowed heavily, clearly knowing what was to follow, and she felt her heart sink a little at the prospect that this was not the first time he had witnessed such.  “Next Papa will take his head.”  He squeezed her hand reassuringly, his jaw setting and his head nodding firmly.  “When they choose fire it is you who does it.”

“I see.”  She looked down to the girls, expecting their faces to be hidden against her dress, sighing at finding that instead they stared on as their father unsheathed his sword.

“I, Aegon of House Targaryen,” here Daenerys looked up in shock, Jon’s eyes locking with hers, promising explanation at the realization that she had not known he had been given such name, “Sixth of my Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm sentence you to die.”  Now, finally, Jon let his fury free, motioning to the guards to force the man’s head onto the rough wooden block, his words dripping with disdain as he leaned close, still speaking loudly enough to hear.  “Look into his face, you disgraceful piece of shit.”  Jon pointed a furious finger at Qhono, who crouched low, giving the man no choice but to stare into the face of Mara’s people.  “Keep your eyes open you coward, for now I take your head.  May the Realms be all the better for it.”

Daeron reached over to nudge at his sisters.  “Don’t look away,” he whispered.  “Papa will know if you do.”

Daenerys watched as Jon raised his sword, the steel flashing in the sunlight, bringing it down in one firm stroke that separated Lord Massey’s head from his body once and for all, blood spurting in a gory mess in the silence that followed.

Then Jon sheathed his sword, turning his head to spit on the man’s body, calling out to the Unsullied who kept watch nearby.  “Dispose of him in the sea.  I will not have this filth dirtying our home anymore.”

\-------------

Night had begun to fall, and Jon and Daenerys led the children to the crowd gathered before a great pyre at the southern end of the island, huddled closely together as the Dothraki honored their dead, the girl’s body placed atop a large pile of wood and awaiting only the blazing flames to set her free to ride the skies with those who had already passed on.

Jon had been quiet in the hours since Lord Massey’s beheading, reminding her of the younger man who had come before her so many years ago, his face brooding and melancholy, cleaning his sword by the fire in their chambers as he stared into the flames.

He seemed to have shaken some of that darkness free, but somberness still remained in them both, and it was only the comforting grip of his hand around hers that kept her tears at bay.

Daeron stood alone now before the pyre, his head bowed as he paid silent respect to the girl that had been his friend.  He had whispered to Daenerys that Mara had helped him learn to ride a horse, had been teaching him to ride as the Dothraki did, his sadness at her loss almost palpable as he had spoken of her so fondly.

The girls were silent, tears tracking down their cheeks mixed with a pained anger that made her chest ache for them, until a trembling of the ground beneath their feet stole everyone’s attention.  Daenerys looked to Jon, panic building, and he pulled her closer, his mouth opening to shout to their son before the pyre.

But then they came.  The horses.  Tens, then hundred, more than Daenerys had expected to see still remaining on the island, horses of so many different shades and colors that she felt dizzy at the sight.  She worried that it was a stampede, that they had been startled into a furious frenzy, but as the beasts approached the gathered crowds they split in unison, circling the amassed group of people who now stood in open-mouthed awe, Dothraki and Westerosi alike, watching in wonder as the horses galloped and neighed, tighter and tighter in concentric groups.  They circled one way then another, each band of mounts galloping faster and faster, the thunder of their hooves so loud that Daenerys could hear little else.

Suddenly they stopped, all at once, panting and heaving under great slick chests that gleamed in the dying sunlight, all turning to face the pyre, all giving a sad whinny or neigh.

And then it was done.

Then they turned, as though driven by some unseen hand, running hard in the direction they’d come from, everyone gathered gazing about reverently at what they had just witnessed.

All except for Daeron, who turned now, walking back to his mother and father, taking Daenerys’s hand as he finally spoke.

“For Mara.”

Jon stared at the boy for a long, quiet moment, a tremor in his jaw.  He raised a hand to the boy’s head then, pulling him close, pressing a hard to kiss to the boy’s raven hair before he looked back at Daenerys.

Jon smiled at her, knowingly, something proud about the set in his face as he stepped clear of the huddled group of wide-eyed watchers, Rhaegal giving mighty screech as he crashed down to the ground, accepting a caress from Jon on his scaled snout before crawled forward slowly to approach the fire.

Drogon stayed aloft, and Daenerys sent up a wish to him, that he would sing for this girl, sing her off into the skies to ride into the night.  And he did, screeching and calling endlessly as Jon whispered, coaxing a gentle flame from the green dragon that bore his father’s name.

“Dracarys.”

 

 


	8. Magic in the Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussions. Smut. Map Table Sex.
> 
> By now we all know why we're here, so let's quit dicking around with summaries and get to the real dicking around!

 

Daenerys pulled the door shut firmly as she stepped into the corridor, the click of the catch ensuring Daeron was safely tucked away in his chambers.  Offering a nod to the guards at her son’s door she began to traverse the hallway, her mind swirling with all that had come to pass that day; Her heart was troubled by what she had seen, confusion and concern creating a tempestuous storm that raged within her.

She was startled, suddenly, as Missandei came around the corner, and it was obvious to the Queen that her friend had been searching for her as a wide smile broke across the other woman’s face, her eyes relieved as she grasped at Daenerys’s hands.

“The King waits for you in the council chamber.”  Missandei squeezed her fingers lightly before linking their elbows as they began to head towards where her husband awaited.

A rush of warmth swept her, carrying away some of her lingering worries with it.  Left behind, in its’ wake, was a burning realization that there could be found, within this terrible day, some small measure of peace.

This would not be the first night that she had adjourned to those same chambers to ponder the burdens she bore.  Daenerys was no stranger to staring into the flames of the great hearth that dominated one wall of the stone room, or pacing an endless circuit around Aegon’s painted table, or stared out the window at the sea, wondering how she was meant to accomplish all that she wished.

Above all those, however, she had spent the most time asking herself how much more she must lose, how much suffering she must bear before it was enough.

Missandei’s soft voice pulled her from her musings, her gaze watchful as she asked, “How does the Prince fare?”

Daenerys bit at the inside of her lips, thinking back on Daeron’s sad, doleful eyes and how fervently he’d pressed his face into Shadow’s hide as her son’s wolf had stretched out beside him on his bed.  “He grieves for his friend, of course.”  She took a breath, looking down at the dark blue brocade of her gown as it swished and swirled with each step.  “He blames himself.”

“Why?”  Her friend’s eyes grew wide with surprise, her arm linking more tightly with the Queen’s as the strode across the cavernous throne room.  “How could this be his fault?”

Daenerys drew to a halt, her brow furrowing in confusion.  “I confess…I am not entirely sure.”  She turned to face Missandei fully, her head tilting a bit as she studied her dearest friend.  “He claims it was his fault we were *here*.”

Understanding flared to life in the woman’s amber eyes, sorrow creeping across her features as her shoulders dipped in resignation.  “I see.”  With a heavy sigh she continued, leading the Queen to the steps below the carved throne and pulling Daenerys down to sit beside her.

“For half the year, your household resides in King’s Landing.”  Missandei looked around the throne room, her hand moving in a sweeping circle as she gestured around the space.  “The other half we reside here, on Dragonstone.”  With a slow exhale, her friend’s eyes returned to hers.  “We were meant to be at King’s Landing now, but…”

“Daeron wanted to spend his name day here.”  It was Jon’s voice, not Missandei’s, that spoke, and it was with a slight sense of chagrin that she felt that small, thrilling tingle begin to course through her whenever he came near.

It would have been tremendously embarrassing to her, swooning over a man who by all accounts had been her husband for a number of years, as though she were a green maid from a fairy story.  But after all the fear and sadness of the hours that had come before, she found she welcomed it, that she was eager for the comfort of his arms and the burning within her that his touch seemed to kindle.

“Damn it.”  Jon emerged from the archway, followed closely by Grey Worm, and she could not stop herself from rising with Missandei and descending the steps, meeting the pair at the bottom of the dais.  “I was worried he would do this.”  His jaw clenched in concert with the scarred fist at his side.  Shaking his head, he turned to Grey Worm.  “You will see to what we discussed?”

Grey Worm gave a stiff nod, and, to the Queen’s surprise, gave the King a half-smile as he took Missandei’s arm.  “It will be done.  Have no fear.”

Jon reached out, clasping the other man’s forearm, gifting him with a small, grateful smile in return.  “Thank you, my friend.”  Her husband’s eyes were warm as he moved to stand close beside her, lacing his larger fingers through her own as he looked back towards the couple.  “Now, if you will excuse us, I would speak to my Queen privately.”

The pair dipped their heads, Missandei sneaking her a sidelong, knowing look as they departed.  “Sleep well, Your Graces.”

She watched until the massive doors swung shut behind them, leaving Daenerys alone with the man she’d married.  Her eyes crept up to find him gazing down at her, his lips curved in a small, crooked smile that conjured an answering twist of her own.

Jon’s hand crept up in a motion that was becoming familiar to her, a caress she had come to welcome from him as his palm cupped her jaw, his thumb sweeping across her lips.

“C’mon.”  His whispered invitation was her only warning that he meant to depart as well, and then he was tugging her gently to him and guiding them both away.

\-------------

Dragonstone’s council chambers were much unchanged from what she last remembered, Aegon’s table, with all it’s intricate peaks and valleys, still dominated the space before the wide, open windows.  Jon must have gotten the girls tucked away much more quickly than she had fared with Daeron, as she noticed a fire burning merrily away in the hearth already, painting the room in shades of gold and red that made her Northern husband all the more handsome as they danced across his features.

Daenerys stood still, her eyes travelling slowly around the room, gathering her thoughts before she joined Jon before the fire, content to watch him as he stretched against the back the chair he’d taken and rubbed at his eyes.

“What a shit day.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the absolute, succinct truth of his words, or the blunt honesty she had come to appreciate from him, but whatever the cause she let loose with a bark of laughter that caused his head to loll against the top of the chair to smile at her.

“Agreed.”  Daenerys looked about, spying the wine she searched for atop one of the long tables against the wall.  She crossed the room, pouring herself a healthy measure and peeking over in his direction, a silent question he answered by raising his own drink high enough for her to notice.

“No need, love.”  He took a swallow of what she guessed to be ale by the sight of it and, as she drew closer to where he sat before the fire, the smell.  Daenerys moved to ease past him, her skirts brushing his trouser-clad legs, when his hand shot out to grasp at her arm and bring her to a halt before him.  “Hang on.”  Jon sat up straight, pulling her closer, his eyes curious.  “Where are you going?”

She squinted at him in confusion, looking over at the armchair just to his left, the one she assumed was meant for her.  “To sit, of course.”

Jon shook his head slowly, sadly, the dark curls not bound back brushing against the collar of his tunic as he clucked his tongue at her.  “Dany, Dany, Dany.” 

Had it not been for the faint tensing around his mouth, she might have thought his disappointed tone the truth of his feelings.  But she had seen it, and so gave nothing away, her eyebrows climbing steadily higher as he continued on, looking horribly forlorn.  “You don’t mean to sit all the way over there, do you?”

Fingers plucked her goblet from her grip willingly enough, setting it on the small, low table between their chairs.  Daenerys let her eyes journey along his form, his armor and layers from earlier now thankfully shed, her gaze climbing and lifting to meet his.  She had to force herself to bury her amusement as she saw he had adopted a pouting expression that was so exaggerated in it’s execution that she suspected he’d copied it from one of their children.

“This presents quite the predicament, then.”  Daenerys tapped her finger against her chin in feigned confusion.  “I assume you have another suggestion?”

At her question Jon leaned back, appearing to think it over.  “I could be convinced to share.”

The Queen rolled her eyes, even as she grinned at him, her arms locking around his neck as she settled herself into his lap, trying to sound put upon as she replied.  “You might have just asked, you know.”  Her lips pressed against the hollow of his throat without even a thought on her part, an action that surprised her only in how reflexively she did it, savoring his satisfied sigh as his arms wrapped around her.

And then she found herself surprised yet again when her husband made no move to claim her mouth.  His head dipped, his beard scratching lightly against her neck as his nose burrowed just behind her ear, along her hairline.  “Where’s the fun in that, Dany?”

He breathed, slowly, in and out, his arms an unyielding band of steel that kept her close, as though he could not bear another second without her against him.

In this, she mused, they were very much alike.  She could feel him, hard and insistent against her hip even through the layers they both still wore, but clamoring to the surface within her was the very same impulse.  She tightened her arms around him in turn, her side tight to his chest, and let herself be held.

He did not let loose until the heart that hammered away against her side had calmed itself, his hands sweeping up and down her back and ghosting over her hair as she pulled back to look upon him.

“Jon.”  Dark eyes caught hers and held as he hummed in response, his fingers twisting into the ends of her hair as he began to twine strands of silver through them.

“How did he do it?”  Her voice caught on the question, one that had circled her mind since she’d seen her son perform a feat so impossible that she still was unsure as to whether it had really occurred at all.  Jon’s brow wrinkled in confusion before her understood what she meant, all trace of humor and playfulness now gone as his features grew serious.

“We’re not entirely sure, love.”  Jon leaned back as well, resting against the chair as he considered her, his fingers still absently playing with tendrils of her hair.  “But Sam has a theory.”

Clearing his throat, he continued, his eyes drifting every now and then from hers to fall on the fire that blazed away before them.  “We are not ordinary people, my Queen.  And between us we have done a great many impossible things, due in no small part to the magic in our blood.  Yours,” he rasped, “and mine.”

Daenerys gave a halting nod, letting her attention drift down to his chest, where his heart hammered away once more, and she trailed her fingers along the path her eyes had journeyed, her palm skimming his cloth covered chest until she felt the raised ridge of long-healed scar tissue under her fingertips.

It was in that very instant that she remembered what Ser Davos had spoken so very long ago, because while she had seen those scars for herself, while her tongue had tasted them each, reverently, she had not allowed herself to dwell on them.  Not while she lay abed with him, not when they were remarkably, blissfully lost in each other.

She felt her breathing quicken, beginning to come fast and sharp, horror creeping in at the edges, tears beginning to form at the implications of what those wounds really meant.

“Jon?”  Her voice trembled just slightly as she spoke, and as Jon looked between her face and the place where she continued to trace the shape of the scar over his heart.  She knew the moment he realized it, what she meant to ask, felt him tense below her and against her, and when she finally met his eyes she saw her own sorrow mirrored in his.

His lips parted as though he meant to speak but she pressed on, her chest tightening with each breath, each second that passed between them just another that might have been stolen from her, if what Ser Davos had said was actually true.

“You died.”  His lips pressed tight together at her whispered statement, a deep frown that she recognized from their first meeting twisting his face into a mask of resigned sadness.

Jon blew out the breath he’d been holding, his eyes return to watch the flames dance.  “For a bit.”

A humorless laugh escaped her, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.  “How exactly does one die ‘for a bit’, Jon?”

He shifted, offering her an apologetic grimace as his gaze skated to hers.  “It was only for a few days.”

“Only for a few days?”  She sat up straighter still, crossing her arms across her chest as she gave his words back to him.  “And then what, Jon?  You just popped up and went on about your business?”  Her voice rose ever higher, much to her frustration.

Gently, Jon reached down, drawing her hand from his chest and kissing her palm.  He held her hand against his cheek with his own, not escaping her gaze at all now as he gave her his full attention.  “There was some magic involved, but essentially, yes.”

She felt herself relax, bit by bit, tension easing as she felt the pressed of his bearded jaw against her fingers, the truth that he was here, now, no matter what had come before allowing her to rest against his chest, her head on his shoulder as so that she could still gaze at his profile and reassure herself that it was him, solid and warm beneath her.

“We are not like other people, Dany.”  He gave a grim smile, his head turning so he could watch her in return.  “And Daeron,” his fingers slid against her where she still held his cheek, “he may be even greater still, even more special.  They all may be.”

The worry that sparked to life in her chest must have been plain in her eyes, because he turned his chin to press another kiss to her palm before he continued.  “What he does, Dany…it’s similar to what I may do with Ghost, or perhaps even Rhaegal.”  There was something akin to awe in his voice, his eyes drifting to the fire, and she wondered if he had conjured the memory back to life over and over as she had done.  “But Daeron is not limited in the ways that I am.”  Shaking his head, he continued.  “He is far more powerful in this gift than I have ever been.”

Jon grew silent, then, his teeth worrying his bottom lip even as he shook his head in wonder.  “He warged that entire *herd*, Dany.  I’ve never seen such a thing.”  His hand fell away from hers, lighting on her skin to trace a path along the sharpness of her cheekbone.  “We must take care that it does not become a weapon to be used against him.”

“You worry people will fear him.”  She did not ask it, but spoke it plainly and firmly, knowing he was right.  Many had used such against her in the past, painted her into a monster when she had aimed to be the opposite.

“People fear things they do not understand.”  Jon reached away, suddenly, plucking her goblet from the table and handing it to her, then taking a large draw from his own.  “Oh, they cheer for us well enough, love; They call us heroes and sing our praises when they are before us.  They pretend we are different.  We saved them, after all.”

Daenerys sipped at her wine, finding the conclusion he aimed for on her own.  “But still, they fear us.”

“And as today has proven, we still find ourselves with enemies.”  A bitter edge crept into his voice, and he finished off his remaining ale in one final swallow.  “And there will be those who fear him, who fear what he can do.  Just as there will be those who fear Serena.”

“Why?”  Her puzzlement was genuine; She could certainly understand the physical threat Daeron might present, but whatever abilities had been given unto her daughter seemed far less intimidating.

“People are very uncomfortable around those who can repeat back to them their darkest secrets, or greatest fears…”  Jon’s voice trailed off.  “She’s still so young, there’s no way to be certain how powerful she might one day become.  It reminds me so greatly of my brother that I fear for what it means.”

Alarm crept in at the ominous pitch of his voice.  “I don’t understand.”

“My brother, Bran.”  Suddenly, Jon gave a great shudder beneath her, his chest trembling, breath streaming out in a pained exhalation.  “He could do the same as her, and more.  He died in the war.” 

“I’m sorry.”  And she was, truly.  The loss of a brother was one she most certainly understood, though she suspected Jon likely had carried on a much better relationship with his than she had with hers.

“One day, when you remember him, you will remember that by the time you met there was very little of the person Bran used to be left within him.”  His eyes fell shut, heavy with grief.  “I can only pray to the Old Gods that circumstances will not require the same sacrifice of Serena.”  He shook his head, frowning.  “Nor Daeron.”

Daenerys remained silent for several moments, nuzzling her nose against his collarbone where it peeked out above the notched collar of his shirt.  “And Aryanna?”  She asked the question with a degree of trepidation, to be sure, not knowing that she could handle another revelation after such a trying day.

When Jon didn’t respond straightaway she pulled back, wanting to see his face, dreading that she might find yet more worry.  But, when she finally risked a glance he had a look of consternation, rather than concern, giving her a groan once their eyes met.

“Gods preserve us if it’s to do with fire, Dany.  Gods fucking save us all.”  He started chuckling, his amusement sparking her own.  “She’ll burn this keep down around our ears trying to light fires to play in.”

It had not occurred to her, she supposed, the possibility that one of her children might have the same particular *gifts* she possessed, and she found herself equally and enthralled and terrified at the prospect.

And he was right, she thought, smile returning as she pictured the small girl she had come to realize was the wildest of her daughters, probably the most headstrong, likely the most impatient.  “Nonsense, my love, she couldn’t burn the stone, at least not with regular flame.  She would need a dragon for that.”

It had slipped out accidentally, what she had called him, but he had not missed it.  He gave her a real, full smile now, of the variety she had seen on several occasions now and worried she was becoming rather addicted to the sight.  It was a smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, that had his teeth flashing before he let his head rest against her shoulder with another heavy groan.

“On, no.  Not that, not yet.”  She let him remain for another heartbeat before pressing a kiss to his temple and slipping free from his loose grasp, making her way over to refill her wine.

“You mentioned your friend Sam had a theory?”  Grasping the pitcher, she poured, awaiting his answer.

“About the children?  Aye.”  Daenerys heard the steady thunk of logs being added to the fire, heard them crack and pop as the flames began to claim them.  “Sam believes that whatever that dwells within us, whatever magic is inside us, it’s in them as well.”  He paused, sounding faintly amused.  “Just…bigger, I suppose.”  Jon frowned, his brow furrowing as he thought.  “No, that’s not quite right.  Sam explains it much better than I can.”

She turned to find him stirring at the hearth with an iron poker, paying scant attention to his task in favor of watching her.  “And what do you think?”

Daenerys thought he might join her, surprised to see him amble towards the table their ancestors had crafted, watching him as he absently rubbed at his chin. 

“I stopped requiring explanations for impossible things long ago.”  Jon paused, stopping to stand at the head of the table, the open windows at his back.  “I do not care what has made them so.  I only care that I do all I can to protect them.  And you.”  At this, he laughed, chuckling, eyeing her as she took a sip of her wine.  “Though you do not technically require it.  Never have.”

“A remarkably good answer.” Tempting as it was to join him there, to stand beside him in a place that she assumed must now be theirs, she had another topic to discuss with him.

The Queen made her way opposite him, positioning herself by the carved relief of Winterfell.  “There is another matter of some importance that must be addressed,” she flicked her eyes to his as he listened intently, “Aegon.”

The King huffed out a tight laugh, hanging his head for a moment before straightening.  “Go on then.  Let’s have it.”

“Now, Aegon, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  Daenerys kept her face expressionless for a beat, but it was clear to her he knew what she meant to say next, as he mouthed the name along with her silently.  “Aegon.”

Jon crossed his arms, desire still there in his eyes, regarding her with an amused, put-upon expression.  “Are you done?”

“That depends,” she smirked at him quickly, “Aegon.”  Slowly, she crept along the table, her fingers splayed and lightly rising and falling with each mountainous peak and valley she traced as she made her way to him.  “Is that truly your name?”

Jon scoffed, now actually appearing a bit put upon even as he grinned.  “If I had been given leave to pick my own, it certainly wouldn’t have been Aegon.”

Closer still, she came, letting her own hunger build, anxious in this comfortable solitude they had found to join herself to him again and let him show her all the ways in which he’d learned to love her.  “Then how is it,” she asked, finally creeping close enough to run her fingertip between his furrowed brows and down the line of his nose, “that you came to be called such?”

Jon mirrored the gesture, but did not reply until his finger fell away from her nose to rest in the notch at the center of her collarbone.  He did not press, just sliding the tip of his finger back and forth, over and over.  He did not, however, let his hand’s activity distract his gaze from hers.

“My mother named me so.”  The raw need in his eyes slightly dampening, he gave her a sad frown.  “Before she died.”  She felt his exhalation, close enough to watch it fan across the hair that he’d left trailing down her left shoulder in his mindless play from earlier.  “That is what Bran told me, at least.  It is what he saw.”  His eyes were on her, gauging her reaction.  “But why she would name me the same as my dead brother I will never know.  There are some things even Bran could not see, and intent was most surely among them.”

His finger traced along and up the line of a tendon as he teased the soft skin of her neck, glancing along the shell of her ear before he tucked her hair behind it.  She wondered if he meant to distract himself, if he had by now become as ready as she was to leave the troubles of the day behind them now. 

It seemed rather counterproductive, at the very least, to inquire further, especially while the man she wished to question had begun tracing patterns along the neckline of her dress.

“It’s a perfectly fine name.”  Daenerys shivered as he continued his gentle touch.  “Just unexpected.”  Iron eyes were on hers in an instant, and she offered him a sweet smile.  “You look rather unlike most of the others.”

At the very least her words had been enough to penetrate his current somberness, his shoulders shaking with a silent laughter.  “I know.”  At the curious twist of her lips he grinned, leaning down to whisper hotly into her ear.  “You tease me about it quite a bit.”

Though she had tried to stiffen in some modicum of offense, all she could manage was to lean into him as he captured her lips with his, the faint trace of ale pleasing to her when mixed with the taste of him.  Daenerys moaned softly, her fingers aching to be buried in his hair, to slide along the skin she had savored for hours the prior night.  It was all the invitation Jon needed to part her lips with his tongue, beginning a slowly tortuous dance that left their mouths reddened and slick when he finally drew back.

“I think we ought to consider refreshing your memory again, love.”

It was the way he said things, she realized, that was truly her undoing.  Jon said no words that, isolated and alone, were so very different from any she’d heard before.  It was the urgent edge of desire in his low, rasping voice, the way she was convinced that he meant every word that passed his lips; Those were the keys to this enchantment of her, those explained how very swiftly he had become a necessity to her, a need on par with food or water to her besotted heart.

Or, she thought, perhaps she had been right when she wondered at her ready response to his touch, his very nearness.  Perhaps it was only her mind that did not recall the history of loving him, because her heart and body seemed to have lost all sense of caution or reason.  That pair were quite willing to quell any fear or concern that this could not be real; They insisted she did not need to know of the past to understand the aching rightness in his touch, the way she had come to crave him so completely.

She would save her worries for the dawn.

“I couldn’t agree more.”  Her hands had wound themselves around his neck as he’d kissed her, and she laced her fingers together as she leaned back to look meaningfully at the carved surface behind her.  “In fact, I would make a request, if it please my husband?”

That earned her a low chuckle that brought her attention back to him, and he was peering down at her with great interest as he grasped her waist firmly in both hands.  “Your requests are generally quite pleasing.”  Jon pretended to think it over, his eyes leaving hers to gaze at nothing in the corner of the room until he nodded decisively.  “Let’s hear it.”

Smiling, Daenerys leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, pulling back when he moved to deepen it.  “You still haven’t shown me how the game ends, Jon.”  She breathed the words against his mouth, stifling a needy moan before it could escape as he brought her flush against him.

“Be more specific.”  His mouth had abandoned hers to travel alone her jaw, his words almost growled against her ear.  “We have played many games, love, and I am well distracted now.”  As if to make sure she understood he shuffled them both forward, until she could feel the solid, carved edge of the table behind her, his hardness pressing against her abdomen as his lips meandered down to seal against her neck.

“The one…”  She gasped loudly, her voice breaking as he suckled hard at the skin just below the lobe of her ear, and she needed a moment before she could continue.  “Where you find yourself in my chambers, of course.”

Jon’s hands lessened their pressure, his eyes almost black in the shadowed glow of the room.  “Ahhhh, of course.  Very rude of me.”  There was something infinitely wicked in the slow smile he gave her, his thumbs circling the silk of her dress as he began to slide them where he still gripped her loosely at her waist.  “A personal favorite, I must confess.”

“Really?”  At his answering nod she raised a brow, keeping her gaze trained on his while she slipped her hands beneath the loose hem of his tunic, letting out a sigh as her fingers splayed against the warm, muscled abdomen beneath.  “And why is that?”

Sentimental reasons, I suspect.”  At her expectant look he only smiled wider, his hands creeping up and along her spine to find the hooks that kept her dress fastened securely.  “Perhaps I will tell you later.”  She felt him pinch the fabric together, felt the bodice begin to loosen as he expertly worked his way down quickly and expertly, as though he had done this thousands of times before.  “Perhaps I will make you wait until you remember.”

Daenerys gave him a pouting look that only seemed to spur him on, her palms reluctantly leaving his skin so that she might free her arms from the hanging material of her dress as she responded.  “That hardly seems fair.”

Jon scoffed, bending down to tug at her skirts, waiting attentively to rid her of the garment completely as she raised one foot and then the other.  As she watched he shook it out, laying it over the back of their abandoned chairs before returning and taking in his handiwork, his eyes raking over her form as she stood, now clad only in slippers of matching blue silk and a thin, sheer shift of gauzy white silk.

“That’s the price for teasing me so, I suppose.”  He shrugged, his eyes focused intensely as she toed off her shoes, the corners of his mouth still curled up in lusty amusement.  “Turn around.”

“For a concession.”  Nodding at her words, Jon motioned for her to continue, and so she reached once more for the thin fabric of his shirt, plucking it away from his skin between two fingers.  “Take this off.”

Daenerys had hardly gotten the last syllable free before his hands were wrestling the shirt over his head and off his arms as though it were ablaze.  “Done.”  He circled his finger in the air.  “Turn around, Dany.”

“A moment.”  The pads of her fingertips touched each scar, each mark no longer merely a symbol of his status as a warrior, a fighter; Now she knew, as she had not before, what they truly represented.  She did not wish to wallow in any more sadness, not in this moment, but she allowed herself a few heartbeats more to see the truth of him.

“Dany.”  His hand was at her jaw, gently forcing her to meet his eyes, to tear her focus from the long-healed wounds that marred his skin.  “Turn around.”  His whispered plea made her realize that she had lingered too long, that she would drown them both in sadness if she strayed too long on this path.

Shaking free from her mournful thoughts she rose on her tiptoes, their mouths too greedy to allow for more than a second of contact before the tip of his tongue was finding hers, stroking and darting and teasing hotly before she pulled back, her breath coming fast and heavy.  “Shall we begin?”

Jon’s hands were on her shoulders, turning her slowly until her back was too him, his body a constant and radiant warmth.  “Now,” he whispered, “ask me.”

“What are you doing in my chambers, Jon Snow?”  Her voice was curt, as though she were horrified by his impertinence, almost an exact replica to the first time she’d awakened to find him fitted tight against her in sleep.

A lone finger teased at her shoulder, his breath hot on her neck as he slipped the strap of her shift off with a flick.  “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace, but I could stay away no longer.”  The tone of his words held all the apology and supplication that his hands did not; As he spoke his opposite hand had performed the same trick, the low neckline of her shift clinging perilously to the aching tips of her nipples.

“Hmmmm.”  Daenerys was swiftly losing the battle to maintain her composure, watching the darker skin of his hands as they slipped the fabric of her shift down to her waist before cupping the full weight of her breasts in his hands, his satisfied sigh chased swiftly by hers as he began to knead gently, each hand working in tandem to drive her desire ever higher.  “And what is it you wish of me?”

He tweaked both stiff peaks at the same time, her knees growing dangerously weak, her thighs pressing together as the heat inside her built with a rapid intensity.  She could feel the slickness at her center, the escalating need that had made it’s home there growing far beyond her ability to control it.

“I must have you, Dany.”  His tongue licked a sinful trail down the column of her neck, his lips curving at her sighing moan.  “Or I shall surely perish.”

She snorted, but raised a hand to grab at his neck, holding his mouth to her, encouraging him to continue.  “I could not bear to have such on my conscience.”  With a practiced shimmy of her hips the shift slipped free completely, lying in a tangle at her feet.  “I must consider the good of the realm.”

Teeth nipped sharply at the back of her neck.  “You are ever-magnanimous, Your Grace.”  Roughened hands continued their assault, her back arching and pushing her hips into his as he gave a moan of his own, something rough and animal that rose from deep within his chest.

“That will change if you don’t get rid of your trousers, Jon.”  He managed to curtail most of the command from her tone by bringing his hands to the now bare skin of lower stomach, holding her against him as he ground his still-covered length against her, making her breathless as a heady wave of desire swept through her.

Daenerys was shameless as she pushed back against him, her hands coming down hard on the edge of the table as she braced herself, desperate for and end to the steady throb between her thighs that pounded in time with her racing heart.

“Don’t move.”  Jon bit the words out harshly, his hands freeing her only to fight a quick battle with his remaining clothing, a battle she could only know from the sound of his frustrated grunt as he wrested himself free, the solid thud of his boots as they hit the floor just in her line of sight.

She remained, the command one she would willingly comply with; If she had felt any affront at such an order it was burned away in short order at the want in his voice, the way his hands began to stroke in long, sweeping glides at her sides as he took up position behind her once more.

It was a welcome sensation, his palms sliding along her curves, occasionally giving her the barest glance of his fingers along the swell of a breast, the sensitive skin just above the silver curls at the juncture of her thighs, grasping a handful of her ass firmly before releasing her to begin his journey of her body anew.

When she pushed back against him further, harder, seeking the promising echo of what she’d had with him the night before he stilled, the head of his cock pressing for a glorious few seconds before he pulled away.

“Something you need, Dany?” 

If they had been playing a game earlier, she thought it must have ended.  They were engaged in a new game, now, once in which he tortured her with his teasing touches and low groans, all the while speaking to her as though he were thoroughly unaffected.

“Are you planning to tease me all evening, Jon?”  Her frustration was evident as she ground out the words, her hips restlessly shifting, her knuckles white as she gripped the table, her spine curved so sharply in search of the hardness she needed within her that she was near bent over in submission before him.

“Is that what you want?”  She risked a glance over her shoulder when she noticed the edge of seriousness in his voice.  He ran a knuckle down her spine as she watched, grasping a hip in each hand, still keeping enough distance between his cock and her cunt that she thought she might scream.  “Or shall I just fuck you now, love?”

Daenerys wanted to purr at the mere suggestion, done with his light touches and devilish taunting.  “Fuck me now or I shall have to ask you to leave,” she intoned, her eyes narrowing, “Jon Snow.”

Jon narrowed his eyes back at her, his jaw clenched tight, his hands like iron vices on her hips.  “How?”

For a moment she was confused; He had already proven to be exceptionally knowledgeable when it came to the way she wanted to be touched, he had spent years exploring her body, so his question gave her pause.

Until, of course, she realized exactly what he intended.

“Hard, Jon.”  Oh, yes, that was what she wanted.  He’d roused her too far, past her ability to withstand any gentleness, and the Gods themselves were probably aware that she was too near her own release to need any more prompting from him.  “Like you mean it.”

Jon gave her a wild look, then, as though she had just enflamed him to the very limit of his control, that it was exceedingly easy to push back against him, to roll her hips within his grasp, keening when the head of his cock bumped against her slick folds.

The King cursed under his breath, his hands twisting suddenly, turning her around to face him.

His eyes had never been so dark, she thought, and she was struck by his restraint even as she grew weary of it.  Backing up slowly she moved until the table was against her again, hopping up slightly to seat herself on the edge and lazily spreading her thighs before him.

“Come here.”  She crooked her finger at him, beckoning him closer, waiting until he was just within her reach.  Thankfully he came willingly, allowing her to pull at his shoulders with her hands, her ankles linking quickly behind his back and settling just above the curve of his ass.

Together they looked between them, watched as one as he took his length in hand, teasing it against her folds, testing her readiness.

“Jon,” she breathed, finally uncaring at how perilously deep this ache for him ran, “please.  Please.”

He gave her one hard, open-mouthed kiss, letting her suckle at his tongue, releasing her with a whimper before thrusting into her in one smooth, hard stroke that stole her breath completely.  He froze, his head bowed against her sweat-dampened neck, seemingly content for the span of one harsh exhalation just to be buried within her, finally, completely.

Jon raised his head suddenly, his eyes burning deep and hot, his lips stunningly gentle on hers when he dropped a brief kiss upon her waiting mouth.

“I love you.”  One heartbeat, then another, a handful of moments to treasure not just his words, but that he meant them, and then her husband began to move.

Jon was true to her request, holding back very little as he withdrew, his hips snapping back against her with such force that she reached back with both hands, catching herself and bracing her hands flat against the carved Kingdoms of Westeros as he began fucking her in a pummeling rhythm that set the pieces scattered across the board tumbling.

Daenerys bit at her bottom lip frantically, her head tossing wildly, falling to her elbows as she began to meet him thrust for thrust, savoring the way her name began to fall from his lips in a rasping chant littered with curses.

Jon shifted, his hands moving to either side of her head, mouth dropping to the rosy tip of her breast, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked and licked, dividing his attention between the two sensitive peaks, delighting in the way she moaned and twisted under him, the sound of her pleasure only spurring him on.

It was when he did the same, shifting and twisting against her, that she opened her eyes again, only to find herself the focus of his hungry stare, his eyes on her face even as he worked her with his mouth.  Then, with a particularly hard thrust, his skin slapping loudly against hers, he released her and straightened, his hands abandoning their posts beside her head so that he could trail his fingers along her, front her collarbone to her navel, careful not to touch her to fully in any place she wished it.

“Stop teasing, Jon.”  She didn’t care how desperate she sounded, not when he fucked her so sweetly.

“As you command.”  He gave her a half-smile, every tendon in his neck standing out as he slid into her with practiced ease, wetness seeping from where they joined, and she watched him feather his thumb across his clit, grinning at her as she gasped his name, her toes curling and pressing into his back as she tightened around him.

And then, just as she thought might well have to toss him from the room for his wickedness, he took mercy on her, his thumb sweeping through her pink folds just above where he pistoned in and out of her wet heat, gathering her arousal as best he could and swirling his thumb in tight circles around the sensitive bud at her apex.

Daenerys felt herself tense, every muscle coiling tighter and closer, her hands digging hard into the ridge of mountains behind her, giving no thought to the shameless sounds he managed to wring from her, visibly more excited with each cry that fell from her lips, almost as though he craved her release as much she did.

Then he pressed, just hard enough, his thumb flicking against her clit as he fucked her impossibly harder still, riding her fitfully now, grunting with each thrust until she finally broke apart, little else mattering but the shattering pleasure with each heavy push of his thick, hard length into her clenching heat, every ripple and wave of release driving him harder and deeper with unyielding determination.

“Fuck’s sake, Dany!”  His startled yelp when she tightened even further, trying to milk his own release from him, hungry for the feel of his seed spilling warm within her, yearning to see his face as she took what was hers from him.

He jerked against her, shuddering, his eyes not leaving hers as she watched him come, each slow, easing slide of his cock filling her with the proof of his own pleasure, her cunt still spasming around him sporadically as he finally slowed to a halt.

“Jon?” She was still breathless, her heart still racing, her body relaxing back even as she remained propped up on her elbows.  It took him a moment to focus, she realized, his eyes a bit dazed as they stared at each other, smiling.  “Did I play it correctly?”  At the puzzled tilt of his head, his chest still heaving, she continued.  “The game?”

Comprehension dawning, he laughed, leaning into kiss her soundly.  “That’s the nice bit about that game, Dany.”  He kissed the tip of her nose, next, then the apples of her cheeks, then her chin.  “There’s not really a wrong way to play it.”

\-------------

It was not until hours later, in the dark of their sleeping chambers, that she began to shake.  They had not bothered with a fire, letting moonlight fill the room instead, bright enough at near fullness that she could see his features as he lay upon his pillow facing her, his hands playing with her hair again as fear consumed her.

“Dany.”  His large hand fell upon her cheek in an instant, his voice heavy with concern in the quiet stillness between them.  “Dany, look at me.”

She was horrified, making an absolute display of herself, she was sure of it, but her embarrassment did nothing to stop her trembling hands and shuddering body.  Still, she could not bring her eyes to meet his, though she could feel tension practically rolling off him in waves.

Her voice had stopped cooperating as well, and only after he had gathered her tight in his embrace, his hand smoothing her hair back, his arms the only solid port in this storm that consumed her that she found she could finally voice what ailed her so.

“How is this real, Jon?”  Her frantic whisper made his eyes go wide.  “How can this be real?  It can’t be.”  A tear broke free, then another, her hands grasping at his shoulders, her nails digging into the bared flesh, as though that might keep him near.  “Don’t you see?  It’s a dream.”  Her voice climbed higher, shriller, panic rising.

“Look at me!”  It was a plea, and he released her only to grasp at her face with both hands, forcing her to face him.  “I am *real*, Daenerys, I swear it.”  She almost could not bear the sad understanding in his eyes.  “I’m here, and so are you.”

He nodded at her, unclenching her hand from his shoulder to lay it over the scar on his heart.  “Neither of us are going anywhere.  Understand?”

She willed her breathing to slow, pressed her hand against that mark on his chest as though she meant to brand herself with it, to take this proof of his existence into her skin and carry it with her as a dreadful reminder.

“I know.”  She gave him a watery smile.  “I know.”  Closing her eyes, she breathed, in and out, slowly easing herself down from the terrified ledge she’d found herself thrust upon.  “I just cannot bear to lose you.  Our children.”  His thumbs brushed away her stray tears.  “I could not survive it, Jon.”

“Then we best not lose each other, or them.”  He finally smiled at her unwitting chuckle, seeming to enjoy the way she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“I daresay it is not quite that easy, love.”

Now he smiled more sweetly still.  “True enough, Dany.”  He gave a sigh, stroking along her cheek with his finger.  “But it *is*much easier with dragons.”

He’d achieved his goal when she laughed fully, shaking her head at him as she finally settled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder.  “You are far sillier than I ever suspected, Jon Snow,” she whispered, enjoying his contented hum against her cheek.

“Aye.”  She felt his chest shake.  “Lucky for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk - everyone reading this owes this chapter to "guest" who penned the following message a day ago:
> 
> "guest on Remember The Time  
> 1 day ago 
> 
> Yes...It always starts like this..."life got in the way, we're busy at the moment but we will continue we promise"... then more and more time pass and nothing. I don't blame them, it's not that, life really can come in the way but then say you can't finish it...come on, almost half a year passed...I'm 95% sure this will not be finished...sad, another very great story abandoned."
> 
> I'm serious. Guest, I don't know who you are, but on behalf of NoOrdinaryLines and myself let me take this opportunity to thank you. Why? Because Guest somehow stumbled upon NorthernLights' one real weakness:
> 
> I will do anything just for the pure orgasmic rush that comes from proving someone wrong.
> 
> Sincerely, Guest, thank you for the kick in the ass, from both of us.


	9. Geros ilas

                                                               

 

Hello Everyone: First and foremost I’d like to thank every single one of you who have read Remember The Time.

Thank you for your time, your kudos and comments. This season of GOT has sent most if not all of us into a dark hole filled with regret on having invested so much time and energy in this series. Therefore, I have made the decision to make Remember The Time an Orphan as of Monday after GoT is officially over. It will still be up on AO3 but my name will no longer be there. So you guys have until then to save the link or the story itself.

Last but not least, I had made a mood board a while ago for what was going to be the 3rd part of this trilogy. You can see for yourselves the adult version of Daeron, Serena and Aryanna. This is whom Lights and I envisioned them to eventually become. I hope this will bring some closure and comfort in knowing that the life Dany encountered in this story was not just a dream. As we all know, her dreams do tend to come true. 


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